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Full text of "Spring Hill Quarterly Vol 1 No 1-4"

tiffi- 'wnma wll ouAirti 



THE ARCHIVES 

SPRING HILL COLLEGE 

MOBILE, AL 36608 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2012 with funding from 

LYRASIS Members and Sloan Foundation 



http://archive.org/details/springhillquarteOOunse 



Spring Hill Quarterly 



VOLUME I DECEMBER, 1938 NUMBER 1 



Contents 



EDITORIALS 5 

"SO SHORT THE ECHO . . ." (short-story)— Caldwell T. Delaney 7 

THE PAN-AMERICAN CONGRESS (essay) F. Taylor Peck 10 

ON CONSIDERING THE HAZY FUTURE 

(verse) Stockman O'Rourke 12 

ROGER STODDART, C.S.A. (short-story) David Loveman 13 

QUATRAIN: TO AN OLD LOVE (verse) Stockman O'Rourke 15 

THE NEGRO MUSE (essay) Thomas F. Sweeney 16 

INTERLUDE: A VIGNETTE (essay) Stockman O'Rourke 19 

ALL IN A NIGHT'S WORK (short-story) Autry D. Greer 20 

HAVE A DRINK? (short-story) Edward Balthrop 23 

THE CHURCH AND DEMOCRACY (essay). .Stockman O'Rourke 29 

. . . THAT MARK OUR PLACE (one-act play) F. Taylor Peck 32 

TO A FLIRT (verse) Stockman O'Rourke 35 

PRESS GLEANINGS _ _ 36 



THE SPRING HILL QUARTERLY is published in December, February, April, and June 
by the students of Spring Hill College. Subscription: one dollar the year, thirty cents 
the copy. Address all communications and manuscripts to THE SPRING HILL QUAR- 
TERLY, Spring Hill College, Spring Hill, Alabama. Entered as second class matter 
under a temporary permit, December 22, 1938, at the Post Office at Spring Hill, Alabama. 



spring HtU QPuarferlg 


Editor-in-chief 




G. STOCKMAN O'ROURKE, '39 




Managing Editor Business Manager 
JACK T. HALLADAY, '39 AUTRY D. GREER, '40 




Associate Editors 




John L. Bacon, '40 Edward Balthrop, '40 F. Taylor Peck, 
Alfred 0. Lambeau, '41 Caldwell T. Delaney, '41 David J. Loveman, 


'41 
'42 


Contributing Editors 




Paul V. Byrne, '39 Thomas F. Sweeney, '39 Edward W. Leslie, 
N. C. La Fleur, '40 Frank B. Rauch, '41 John De Ornellas, 
John L. Mechem, '41 Frank Kearley, '42 


'39 
'42 


Circulation Managers 




Charles A. Isaac, '39 Redmond J. Reilly, '40 





Prologue To What? 

With high hopes, slender 
means, and great ambitions — 
thus begins the staff of the first 
strictly literary publication ever 
undertaken by the students of 
Spring Hill College. What the 
future will bring, how many of 
the hopes and ambitions will be 
realized, are things no man can 
tell. But this, at least, can be 
said: the original inertia has 
been overcome, a beginning has 
been made, and the Spring Hill 
Quarterly is on its way! 

The Quarterly aims to be a 
magazine by and for the stu- 
dents. The editors are convinced 
that there is no lack of writing 
ability among the students and 
they hope to be convinced there 
is no lack of interest. In fact, it 
is their fondest hope that they 
will be snowed under with liter- 
rary contributions for the next 
issue. 

Season's Greetings! 

Comes the time now when we 
celebrate an event beside which 
all mundane happenings pale 
into insignificance and fade into 
the background. Once more we 
take pause to give special ven- 
eration to the Prince of Peace — 
our Saviour. 

Appearing for the first time 



during this holy season, the 
Spring Hill Quarterly is espec- 
ially happy to wish its readers 
and friends the best of Christ- 
mases. From the editors and 
staff to students, faculty, par- 
ents, and all friends of Spring 
Hill goes that familiar greeting: 
Merry Christmas and a happy 
New Year! 



Population In Retrograde 

A survey released by the Bu- 
reau of the Census indicates that 
the United States will reach its 
maximum population by 1940. In 
view of the sanguinary predic- 
tions made by statisticans only 
a few years ago that the United 
States would not reach the sat- 
uration point of population for 
another century, this is indeed 
startling information. Adequate 
reasons must substantiate this 
reversal of opinion. 

The reasons, we think, are not 
hard to find. During the economic 
crisis of the depression years 
there was a general shift In out- 
look. Whereas the United States 
had formerly been regarded as 
the land of promise where hope 
of bettering one's condition was 
ever present, a new attitude 
gradually came to the fore. With 
the crumbling of the economic 
order bringing in its wake wide- 
spread unemployment, industrial 



strife, and the collapse or shrink- 
age of many a business enter- 
prise, a definite fear seized the 
country. The government step- 
ped in and interfered. It used 
extraordinary means to combat 
extraordinary conditions. But 
with recovery in sight it con- 
tinued to create work by arti- 
ficial means and continued to 
put people on relief. Consequent- 
ly, the defeatist attitude of the 
depression years still lingers be- 
cause the government refuses to 
allow men to better their own 
condition by their own effort. A 
restoration of the old ideal, the 
spirit of expectancy and hope, 
will do much to revive confidence 
in this land of opportunity 
whose resources, far from being 
exhausted, remain at the dispo- 
sal of world markets. 

In the second place racial sui- 
cide or birth control, to which 
may be added the million an- 
nual abortions, is doing more 
than its share to stabilize and de- 
crease population. The foremost 
American advocate of contracep* 
tion, Mrs. Margaret Sanger, is 
after all these years of adverse 
propaganda, alarmed over the 
declining birth rate. Her reac- 
tion is strange indeed since the 
underlying purpose of her move- 
ment could have led to but one 
end — a marked reduction in the 
number of births. 

A return to sanity, therefore, 
is evidently essential if the pop- 
ulation decline of the United 
States is to be stopped and the 
normal expectation reached. 



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YOU! 



The Greer Stores 



"So Short The Echo . . ." 

An Incident from Spring HilVs past 

By Caldwell T. Delaney 



" A ND SO, my friends, the fat of France has come to 
£\ tempt the palate of America; which only goes to 
prove that the Bishop was right when he said that al- 
though Spring Hill may not rival Fountainebleau in gran- 
deur, it has surpassed her in extravangance." 

Adolphe Batre gazed lovingly at the huge dish before 
him and a ripple of laughter ran down the long table to 
Bishop Portier who sat enthroned in a great high-backed 
chair at its foot. His round, cheerful face and ready 
wit had come to be a necessary part of any celebration 
on the Hill since he had begun work on his beloved col- 
lege and had moved out from Mobile to see that no detail 
of the construction escape his notice. His avowed oppo- 
sition to the frivolity of his gay French neighbors only 
made him the more welcome at their feasts and their 
friendly quips at his expense were usually parried with 
the greatest vigor. 

This was a special occasion, though, so the good Bishop 
held his tongue. For Adolphe Batre, the most lavish host 
of all that lavish society, was celebrating his own birth- 
day in true regal style. The nickering light from massive 
silver candelabra played upon the shimmering white ex- 
panse of the table and glinted from jewels at ladies' 
throats. Behind the host his dusky butler stood frozen 

—7— 



at attention. All eyes were upon Adolphe and the ob- 
ject of his admiration. 

And truly it was worthy of admiration, a culinary mas- 
terpiece straight from France. There in its frosted nest 
quivered the greatest pate de foie gras the world had 
ever known ! Fifteen pounds it had weighed when it left 
Paris, ordered especially for the occasion, and Adolphe 
was proud of it. 

At last he tore his fascinated gaze from his treasure 
and began to speak again. "My friends, Napoleon himself 
never feasted on such a scale as this . . . " But, lost in 
the ardor of his praise, he failed to see one of his guests 
arise quietly in the shadow and leave the table. 

It was Colonel Raoul who stepped through the long 
window and crossed the moonlit veranda to lean against 
a pillow and gaze pensively down into the garden. Why 
did the mention of Napoleon still affect him that way? 
It was all over, Austerlitz, Elba, and St. Helena — all his- 
tory. And yet it was hard to forget those glorious days 
when he led the advance guard in the escape from Elba. 

He closed his eyes and the gay laughter from the dining 
room faded into oblivion. Old faces and familiar places 
crowded into his memory. He saw again the Little Cor- 
poral's face as he cast his lot in exile with the man who 
had made him a count and a colonel in the army of 
France. Then came Waterloo and the abyss. Fame, for- 
tune, even homeland were snatched away from the little 
band who had been faithful to the end. Even now the 
thought made him shudder. 

The flight to America, Mobile, Demopolis, were no less 
vivid. Now he could laugh at the enthusiasm with which 
the gay French officers and their fragile ladies had laid 
out their "City of the People" and planted the vine and 
the olive in a New World wilderness. Even those dreary 
days when he, Count Raoul, ferried rough pioneers across 
the muddy Tombigbee while his beautiful wife, the for- 
mer Marchioness of Sinbaldi and lady-in-waiting to the 
Queen of Italy, cooked flapjacks for them on the shore, 
were amusing now. 

He smiled and another burst of laughter brought his 
thoughts abruptly back to the party inside. Perhaps those 
dark days had not been so bad after all; for were they 
not all united again at Spring Hill, their "City of Ref- 

—8— 



uge"? Fontainebleau they had named it for Napoleon's 
palace where the Old Guard had met to bid their exiled 
Emperor farewell. 

Count Desnottes was with them now, the same one 
Napoleon had singled out to embrace for them all on 
that sad occasion. And so was Cluis, and Chaudron, and 
the Marquise of Almavaldi. The Baron de Vendel was 
there, a fugitive of the court of Louis XVI, and Penier 
was there, who had voted the same Louis' death. De Lage, 
banished by Louis XVIII, had entertained Lafayette when 
his grand farewell tour of America brought him this way. 

The Little Corporal was gone; Louis Philippe was on 
the throne. Yes, Spring Hill was as near as they would 
ever come to Fontainebleau again. He sighed and turned 
back into the room. 

Adolphe was still holding forth upon the virtues of his 
prize while his discouraged guests gazed helplessly from 
one to another. But now the Bishop was rising with a 
twinkle in his eye, and a hush of expentancy fell over the 
table. In his most solemn manner he addressed his en- 
thusiastic host. 

"If I might interrupt, Adolphe," he began, "I would 
say that the time has come for the dead to bury the dead 
and the living to save the living from starving." He 
chuckled gently at his joke and smiled benignly upon 
the grateful guests. "I am sure that the rest of your speech 
will keep until tomorrow and that it will be willingly 
heard then." 

In the laughter that followed Raoul arose to offer a 
toast. A smile played about his lips as he raised the fragile 
glass. "Then, sons of France," he cried, "starving sons 
of France, drink to Spring Hill, the City of Refuge ; may 
the future be glorious and may the past never die!" 



The Pan-American 
Conference 

By P. Taylor Peck 



AN event that may mark the opening of new era in 
inter-American cooperation and security occurred in 
Lima, Peru, on December 9, when the eighth Pan- 
American Conference convened. Unfortunately, it must 
remain a conjecture, for the nations of South America 
are not entirely in accord with the political and economic 
policies of the United States. It is ironical, perhaps, to 
find that the president of Peru is for all practical purposes 
as dictatorial in his own ways as his Fascist-models in 
Europe. President Oscar Benavides is said to be quite an 
admirer of Signor Mussolini. 

However, the governments of South America are not 
without cause for their hesitancy in cooperating with the 
policies of the United States. Too often has the United 
States disregarded the sovereignty and sentiments of 
those nations, and the implication that Latin-American 
states were satellites under the sway and direction of tKis 
government has aroused no end of resentment and hos- 
tility. The United States had long considered that those 
primitive territories to the south were exclusive fields 
for American capital and commerce to exploit. Washing- 
ton felt an unpleasant, not to say sickening, jolt when it 
began to realize that these primitives were economically 
potent within themselves. In addition, these prospective 
customers of North American products were being more 
and more drawn into trade with European nations whose 
political philosophies made them doubly dangerous. 

Another pillar of American foreign policy that has 

—10— 



cast a deadening shadow on inter-American relations is 
the much-debated Monroe Doctrine. In the past this doc- 
trine, because of its strict unilateral manifestations, has 
been an irritating factor in diplomacy. The positions taken 
in the interpretation of the Monroe Doctrine by Presidents 
Cleveland, Theodore Roosevelt, Woodrow Wilson, and 
Coolidge differ radically from the "good neighbor" poli- 
cies of the present administration, and the present con- 
ference should see a greater separation between the past 
and present concepts of the meaning of the Doctrine. • 

The present flow of world affairs makes the conference 
at Lima especially interesting and of paramount signifi- 
cance, for that European power which has been and is 
the disturbing element in Central Europe, is also that 
country whose aggressiveness in Latin-America has twice 
led it to attempt an overthrow of the state in Brazil, and 
whose commercial relations with Mexico, especially in 
relation to the recently confiscated oil properties, have 
left the State department shaken and annoyed. 

The uncertainty regarding the strength of the govern- 
ment of Brazil and its permanence in office has created 
a relative insecurity in the policies of her immediate 
neighbors, especially Argentina, who like Brazil has 
strong affiliations of a European nature, and cannot en- 
ter into any binding alliance that might call for action 
against Brazil, as her own safety would be endangered. 
A general alliance, though very impressive at the outset, 
would probably find itself in the same status as other 
anti-war pacts when they cease to be of immediate use 
and threaten danger. 

What, then, can be hoped for from this eighth Pan- 
American Conference at Lima, Peru? Primarily, the most 
certain of results that will be permanent is the anticipated 
gradual reduction of tariffs between all the American 
countries, with the final goal being the abolition of all 
tariff and an equality of treatment in commerce. This is 
most desirable as it can bring an increased prosperity to 
both the North and South American countries, thus hin- 
dering to a great extent the oppression-philosophies of 
Fascism and Naziism, either from Europe or from Asia. 

Secondly, an extended program of inter-American cul- 
tural and educational exchanges, consisting of literature, 
art, and the like. Also, an improvement in tourist service, 

—li— 



and a greater exchange of students between the great 
universities of North and South America. Nothing will 
hasten the cementing of friendly diplomatic relations as 
will an understanding of the problems, policies, and peo- 
ple of Latin-American nations. 

Thirdly, but by no means the least important, will be a 
lucid and definite definition of the foreign policy on the 
part of the United States, regarding inter-American re- 
lations. Likewise, it should show that the United States 
is willing and able to administer this revised policy. Then, 
if the purposes of our government are understood, and 
we gain the respect and trust of the neighbors of the 
South, there shall be some basis for the building of a firm 
and determined peace in these two Americas. 



On Considering The Hazy Future 



As I gaze dimly at dark days ahead 

And feel the breath of Time upon my heels, 

My fearful heart an awesome numbness feels 

As if some cool and cruel voice had said : 

"O, best to leave mute Fate's tight scroll unread 

Lest seeing what the tortured page reveals, 

Your half-felt doubts congeal as it unreels 

More frightful scenes than ev'ry present dread." 

Yet still my soul such numbing doubt disdains 

Well knowing things that give me strength to stand 

In spite of heart half-sick with future banes. 

Faith, hope, and courage, too, shall soothe all pains 

Until dread fear shall loose its clammy hand — 

But yet, alas, some faint deep doubt remains. 

Stockman O'Rourke 



-12- 



Roger Stoddart, C.S.A. 

An imaginary correspondence of Civil War days 

By David Loveman 



Confederate Camp 
Outside Nashville, Tenn. 
Dec. 26, 1864 — Past midnight. 

To my dear wife, Lucy Stoddart 
Giant Oaks 

Murfreesboro — Nashville Pike 
Murfreesboro, Tennessee. 

My dearest: 

God alone knows if this will ever reach you. I pray 
that it will, and yet, because I must pour out my heart 
to you, I'm loath for you to know the burdens of sorrow 
and despair that rest upon me. 

It is bitterly cold, for we dare not light the fires. The 
wind sweeps in from the Cumberland and the bare trees 
against the sickly moon are frightful. We are all a part 
of a tension that hovers about us like a vulture — black 
and sinister — and I am filled with dread of the future. 
We have received word that Thomas will attack from 
the city at dawn, and I have only a few minutes in which 
to write before we must draw up our lines and receive 
our orders. I have just come from a conference with Gen- 

—13— 



eral Hood. 'There is little but despair left for us. The 
General is brave but we are hopelessly outnumbered. We 
have been here too long — -nearly two weeks — and now 
that the crisis is approaching, we have lost confidence 
and realize our deficiencies. With us lie the fading hopes 
of the Confederacy. If we retake Nashville, we can still 
save our country and our honor. If we lose, it is the end 
of all our hopes and dreams. 

But enough of my melancholy. 

I am lonesome for you tonight, my love. I was allowed 
a few moments sleep this afternoon, and I dreamed of 
you and the first time we met. Do you remember? It was 
May and I had come to your father's plantation to see 
your brother Jack. I rode up to the drive and there you 
were. The sun was on your hair, and there were blue 
flowers on your dress, and your skirts danced in the, 
breeze. You stood on the upper gallery, your hand on 
the great white pillar and from that moment I was yours. 
You were beautiful beyond belief. And you smiled. 

You smiled, too, on our wedding day. Your eyes re- 
flected the glow of the candles as you descended the 
stairs in your white gown and veil, and my heart almost 
burst with happiness. It seems so long ago — and yet it 
has been only four years. 

Remember our honeymoon in New Orleans and how 
your great-aunt Myra wept and wept when we arrived? 
And the ball at the new hotel? Four years! It has been 
an eternity. 

Our new home was ready for us when we returned. I 
carried you over the threshold, and in the parlor, dim 
with drawn blinds and evening shadows, we stood alone 
and planned our future. How lovely the room was! It 
hurts terribly to know the privations that you must suffer 
now in that same room. That is the worst of this war — 
our women must suffer with us. Once life was full and 
good and now it is empty. You alone remain of all I once 
loved. Your arms are the only thing left for me when the 
war is over. We must build our life anew. 

How is my baby? Kiss her for her father and may God 
bless her and you, my faithful and beloved wife. 

I must hurry. The first streaks of light are appearing 
across the river. It will soon be dawn and death and des- 
truction. If God in His infinite mercy grants that I shall 

—14— 



live through it, and if our Cause is victorious, once more 
I can come home to you as I used to do long ago. 

The bugle has sounded. I must go. I shall think of you 
and our little girl during the fighting. Pray for me — that 
I shall come home to you and her some day. 

Until that day, 

ROGER. 



General Hood's Headquarters, 
Confederate Army, stationed 
in defeat at Brentwood, Tenn., 
December 28, 1864. 

Mrs. Roger Stoddart 
Giant Oaks 
Murfreesboro, Tenn. 

Madam : 

We regret to inform you that your husband died gal- 
lantly in action at 6 A.M., December 27, in the battle 
of Nashville. He served his Cause — the Cause of us all — 
bravely and died as a true Confederate soldier. 
Our deepest sympathy to you, Madam. 

J. B. HOOD, C. S. A., 
Commander, Confederate Forces. 



Quatrain: To An Old Love 



Our love was not a flickering flame 
To be watched and fondly cherished. 

It was a sudden lightning flash, 
And like the lightning perished. 

Stockman O'Rourke 



•15— 



The Negro Muse 

By Thomas F. Sweeney 



THE majority of white Americans know little of the 
contribution of the Negro to American literature. We 
are too prone to look contemptuously upon the Negro as 
necessarily inferior and to ignore his attempts to burst 
asunder the fetters we have placed upon his social and 
intellectual life. Outside of Dunbar, who is usually known 
only as a name, and a few negro spirituals, there is a 
belief widespread that the Negro has written nothing 
worth considering. 

But he has definitely accomplished something in this 
field. The first lispings of the negro muse are past, and 
the time has come when we cannot but hear his just 
claims to recognition in the sphere of literature. 

Ignoring as inferior the Aframerican poets from Phillis 
Wheatley in the eighteenth century, who incidently was 
one of the first feminine poets in America, to Paul Lau- 
rence Dunbar in the nineteenth, negro poetry has been 
mounting steadily towards a high level. Indeed, in that 
time, negro dialect poetry has given America its only 
distinctly national poetry. 

Paul Laurence Dunbar, who died in 1906 when only 
thirty-four years of age, 

stands out as the first poet from the Negro race in the United 
States to show a combined mastery over poetic material and 
poetic technique to reveal innate literary distinction In what 
he wrote, and to maintain a high level of performance. He 
was the first to rise to a height from which he could take a 
perspective view of his own race. He was the first to see 

—16— 



objectively its humor, its superstitions, its shortcomings; the 
first to feel sympathetically its heart wounds, its yearnings, 
its aspirations, and to voice them all in a purely literary form.l 

Dunbar's poetry is in large measure written in the 
negro dialect, by means of which he portrayed accurate- 
ly the Negro character and psychology. This use of 
dialect was not from choice, as he remarked to a friend, 
but because "it's the only way I can get them to listen 
to me." In this respect James Weldon Johnson points out 
a comparison between him and Robert Burns: "Burns 
took the strong dialect of his people and made it classic ; 
Dunbar took the humble speech of his people and in it 
wrought music." 2 

In "A Death Song," Dunbar expresses a sentiment often 
found in poetry, namely, the desire to be buried near 
familiar scenes. If we subdue our natural bias, this poem 
does not suffer greatly when compared to many others on 
the same subject: 

Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass, 
Whah de branch'll go a-singin' as it pass 

An' w'en I'se a-layin' low, 

I kin hyeah it as it go 
Singin', "Sleep, my honey, tek yo' res' at las'." 3 

Dunbar is the greatest of the American negro poets 
of the United States, but in the whole Western World he 
is surpassed by several Latin American negroes. Among 
these, Placido, Machado de Assis, Vieux, Durand, and 
Manzano are internationally known. Placido and Macha- 
do de Assis undoubtedly rank as literary masters and 
their poetry could pass the severest standards. 

Placido is most famous for the sonnet, "Farewell to 
my Mother," written the night before his death. This re- 
markable work has been translated into every important 
language. Recently a national radio broadcast dramatized 
it. Two translations of the poem exist in English, one by 
William Cullen Bryant, the other by James Weldon John- 
son, a Negro. The translation by Bryant is greatly inferior 
to the accurate re-creation by Johnson. 

Placido was deserted by his mother shortly after his 
birth. His father died a few years later. In 1844, when 

1 — J. W. Johnson, Book of American Negro Poets (Harcourt, Brace and Company, New 
York, 1933), p. xxxiii. 

2 Ibid., p. xxxv. 

3 Ibid., p. 16. 

—17— 



only thirty-three years of age, having produced more than 
six hundred pages of poetry, he was shot for conspiracy 
in the Cuban revolt for independence. The night before 
his execution he penned the sonnet to his mother in the 
hope that when she heard of his death, it might awaken 
some grief or sadness. The sextet is deeply moving : 

My lyre before it is forever stilled 
Breathes out to thee its last and dying note. 
A note more scarce than a burden easing sigh, 
Tender and sacred, innocent, sincere — 
Spontaneous and instinctive as the cry 
J gave at birth — And now the hour is here — 
O God Thy mantle of mercy o'er my sins! 
Mother, farewell! The pilgrimage begins. 4 

Among the Aframericans of more recent times, several 
have been ranked with the outstanding poets of America. 
Anthologies compiled in recent years include works by 
Negroes, with no qualifications given nor "colored sec- 
tion assigned." Especially noteworthy are James Weldon 
Johnson, Claude McKay, Joseph S. Cotter, Jr., and 
Charles Bertram Johnson. 

In general, the modern Negro has discarded dialect as 
a medium of expression, while the innovations of "Spoon 
River Anthology" are widely used with much success. 
Occasionally, exceptionally fine poetry is produced in the 
traditional forms, such as J. W. Johnson's admirable 
Petrarchan sonnet, "Mother Night." A few, as W. E. 
Burghardt Du Bois' "A Litany of Atlanta," are unique 
creations. 

None, however, is a great master of poetic technique, 
but their poems are perhaps the most sincere. They chafe 
under the yoke of social injustice and their increasing 
unrest and resentment are poured forth in bitterest words. 
They voice the emotions of the masses, singing a sorrow- 
ful and proudly resentful strain. It is this spirit that per- 
vades nearly the whole of the modern negro poetry. 
Sometimes, as in McKay's "To the White Fiends" and "If 
We Must Die," it is so virulent as to strike terror. 

Yet this great problem of the negro race is not always 
allowed to overshadow the sense of artistry. In J. S. 
Cotter's poetry we find a delicate poetic sense and a re- 
fined imagination. Cotter died of tuberculosis when only 

4 Op. cit., p. 206 

—18— 



twenty-four, and his poetic aspirations and technical skill 
force one to wonder, as with Keats, what his destiny 
might have been. His poem "Rain Music" is among his 
best: 

On the dusty earth-drum 
Beats the falling rain; 
Now a whispered murmur, 
Now a louder strain 

; 
Slender silvery drumsticks, 
On an ancient drum, 
Beats the mellow music 
Bidding life to come. 5 

The American Negro has not yet produced a poet who 
may be classed among the very best, but in the light of 
his accomplishments in the past fifty years in spite of the 
obstacles that beset his path, it would not be extravagant 
to predict that the negro muse will some day attain the 
Olympian heights. Charles Bertram Johnson sounds the 
keynote when he says: 

Here and there a growing note 
Swells from a conscious throat; 
Thrilled with message fraught 
The pregnant hour is near; 
We wait our Lyric Seer ... 6 

5 Op. oit., p. 156 

6 Op. cit., "Negro Poets," Page 187. 



Interlude: A Vignette 

By Stockman O'Rourke 

THE insinuating lilt of saxophones rises above the mur- 
murs of the swaying couples on the dance floor. Cigar- 
ette smoke floats in diffusive clouds on the atmosphere. 
The room is stifling hot and scarcely a vagrant breeze 
finds its way inside. All are absorbed in the mad whirl 
of the dance, intoxicated by the half-savage rhythms. 

A restive couple stops dancing and without speaking 
moves towards the door. Outside the cool breath of a 
nocturnal breeze touches their flushed cheeks. The stars 
look down with a cool beauty reminiscent of diamonds on 
velvet. Only the scent of pine trees rides on the night 
air, only the whisper of pine needles. Inside they still 
dance, but all is cool and quiet here. 

—19— 



All in A Night's Work 

By Autry D, Grccr 



MAX walked rapidly down Eighth Avenue. He buried 
his hands deeper in his overcoat pockets and bent his 
head forward into the icy wind that swirled scraps of 
paper and dust up from the street. 

The buildings loomed cold, grey, and bleak in the 
faint yellow light of the street lamps, and the dingy 
windows of closed shops stared like the blank eyes of 
the dead. The street was deserted except for Max and 
three men who sat in a car parked a half block down. 

Max stopped in the doorway of one of the buildings 
and squinted at the number on the door. It was not the 
right place. He walked past two more doorways and then 
stopped at the third. He cupped a match in his hands, 
and lit a cigarette. After exhaling, he watched the wind 
waft the blue smoke out into the street. 

"It's a nice place for a job, all right — quiet, deserted, 
and no copper on the beat on a night like this." He 
stamped his feet to keep the blood circulating. "It's plenty 
cold. I wonder if everything is O.K." He tapped the re- 
volver in his overcoat pocket to reassure himself. 

There were footsteps on the street. Max slid back into 
the shadows of the doorway. His hand closed on the 
cold steel of the gun, and he brought it from his pocket. 
He felt weak and hollow in his stomach, and his hand 
trembled. Smoke from the cigarette clenched in his lips 

—20— 



temporarily blinded him, and suddenly he felt panicky. 
He jerked the cigarette from his mouth and ground it out 
beneath his foot. 

"Don't be a fool," he muttered to himself. The steps 
drew nearer, and then a man walked into view. Max 
started to grip the trigger, but caught himself. He could 
tell the man was not Tony; he was too small and walked 
differently. The footsteps faded down the street. 

"I gotta be careful. It won't do to knock just anybody 
off." Max restored the gun to his pocket and glanced at 
the illuminated dial of his watch. Tony was due at 12 :30 ; 
it was only 12:15. "I'd better watch my step. Plenty of 
people might pass in fifteen minutes. I hope it ain't too 
dark for me to recognize Tony, but I think I'd know that 
face anywhere. I wish I was used to this. Guys say the 
first time you rub one out is bad. I believe it!" 

Max looked at his hands. They were still trembling. 
He had to stop that. He glanced at his watch again; not 
even a minute had passed. His thoughts drifted to Gus, 
Eddie, and Al waiting in the car to get him after the job 
was done. He wondered if they thought he had guts 
enough to pull it. He particularly wanted to show Al. 
Al, with his long, white fingers, his tall thin body, and his 
steely eyes, who killed and made a joke of it. The others 
didn't matter much; it was Al whom he wanted to im- 
press. 

They had had four or five drinks before they left the 
room, but Max needed another one to give him courage 
and warmth. Just one more little nip to steady his hand. 
But he couldn't get it now. 

If Tony saw him first, Max knew the game was up. 
Tony could shoot faster and straighter than he. He, Max, 
would keep behind the doorway until Tony had passed 
by, and then plug him in the back. There was no use 
in taking chances. Tony had it coming to him. He was a 
rat and should be shot. The dirty wop had double-crossed 
them. 

Max glanced at the door behind him. On it were the 
numerals 416, and above them there was a rental sign. 
The boys sure knew how to pull these jobs. They stuck 
him before an empty joint, and they knew just when 
Tony would come. 

—21— 



"What time is it?" he asked himself. It was 12:25. 
"In six minutes I'll have my job done and be on my way." 
He could just hear the boys grunt with satisfaction as he 
jumped into the car. They'd probably slip him plenty for 
this work, and this was only his first. 

One more minute! He felt cold again and nauseated 
from the whisky, and again as he reached for the gun 
his hand shook. He wished he could have a smoke, but 
it was too late to take a chance on one now. 

The door behind him creaked and was flung open. He 
wheeled around and saw the dark form of a man. He 
saw two flashes of fire, and a gun roared in his ear. Then 
he felt the pain, hot and rending, in his body. He felt be- 
wildered — it was all so impossible! His eyes followed 
his own gun as it slipped from his hand and clattered to 
the paving. He felt himself reeling ; the buildings seemed 
to sway, and he turned and fell face down on the side- 
walk. 

He heard Tony's voice in his ear. It sounded a long way 
off. "You thought you were pretty smart, kid, but you 
knew a little too much." Tony's foot cracked into his 
ribs, and then against his cheek. 

A car pulled up to the curb, and Tony got in. Max 
tried to crawl toward it, but it pulled away before he 
could reach it. He heard the tires squeal as they turned 
into Madison street. 

"Al! Al! Don't leave me, I'm dying. For God's sake, 
somebody help me!" Blood formed a little pool beneath 
Max's mouth as he lay there, and it began to seep through 
his clothes from the wounds in his chest. 

"You done a nice job, Tony," Al said. 

"Yeah," Tony replied laconically. "Say, Gus, let's stop 
somewhere and get a beer and a hamburger; I'm hun- 
gry." 



-22- 



Have A Drink? 

By Edward Balthrop 



COME in. Good morning, how are you? No, don't go. 
You are in the right room. I know I don't look quite 
like the type of healthy traveler you expected ; but you'll 
have to take me as I am. And you'll like it, too. You see, 
I'm a reporter, too ; and I know what you have to put up 
with. Have a drink? No? What's the matter — just started 
on the job or married? Neither one? Huh! Well, I guess 
there are decent sorts of people in every line, even re- 
porting. Have a seat. I want to get this over with. I'm 
not feeling so well. Those damned Russian prisons don't 
especially make for a person's general health, at least 
not mine. 

Yes, it's a good feeling to get back in the good old 
U. S. A. You can tell all your dear readers that. And you 
can tell them I never would have gotten back to their good 
old U. S. A. if it hadn't been for the combined efforts of 
the American Embassy in Moscow. They got me out of 
that rat-hole the damned Communists call a jail. Jail? 
That's what they called it, but let me tell you, buddy, it 
was just an elevated cesspool. God knows how I survived 
it. But I did. So let's forget it. 

How did I get out? You know more about that than I 
do. All I know is one day a guard came and jerked me 
out of my — what they called — cell and led me to the 
man in charge. He turned me over to Mr. Laskin, the 
junior ambassador to Moscow. I passed out then and next 
morning woke up in a hospital bed. That was six months 
ago. I'm just getting well now. Not even fully recovered, 

—23— 



yet. You can see that yourself. 

How long? They tell me only three months. It seemed 
like three lifetimes to me. I couldn't have caught all 
the diseases I caught in three months. But they say three 
months ; so three months it must be. For myself, I can say 
I lost all track of time. Every day meant just that much 
longer misery. I'm telling you, man, I was so sick I was 
afraid I wouldn't die. 

Laugh. Go ahead, smile. You can if you want to. But 
you don't know. You've never been in a Russian jail. And, 
by God, for your sake I hope you never are. You might 
not be as lucky as I was. 

How did I happen to get thrown into jail? Now, you're 
getting better. I can answer that. I remember it more 
clearly, I should. I had three long months — so they say — 
to think it over. It seemed more like three centuries, but 
they say only three months, so three months it is. I had 
three months to think it over. 

I'm sorry. I'm telling you how I got thrown into that 
stink-hole they call a jail — why, in official diplomatic 
language, the unfortunate fellow was incarcerated. But 
I've digressed. And I'm digressing again. But I'll get 
there pretty soon. You see I've lost all the characteristics 
of a good newspaper man. Those three months took 
everything out of me that I ever had. You don't under- 
stand, I know. You can't because you never were in a 
Russian jail. But I was and I know. 

Three months of that hell took out all my spirit and 
it would have taken out yours, too, buddy; believe me. 

Thank God this is America that I'm talking in now. 
Because in almost any other country we'd both be shot for 
having this interview. You'll have to take that on my 
word, too. Smile if you want to, but you'll have to believe 
it on my word. You'll have to, because I was there and 
you weren't. Take that on faith. You'll need it and more 
when you hear what's coming. 

Why was I thrown into jail or, as the diplomatic bulle- 
tin said, incarcerated? Frankly, I don't know. All I can 
do is tell you what happened up to the time I was im- 
prisoned and let you figure out for yourself why. That's 
it, get set; it's coming fast now. 

Eleven months ago I was in New York just as you are 

—24— 



now, a reporter. I did just what you do now. I covered 
my beat, got my news stories and occasionally did a little 
interviewing of famous people, every now and then catch- 
ing some disgusting job such as you have now in inter- 
viewing me. No, don't protest. I'm a reporter too, don't 
forget. And I have your side as well as mine to look at. 
Where was I — oh, yes. But before I begin let me digress 
again and ask you to take a drink. You may need it. 

No? O. K. You're an obstinate cuss, aren't you? But I 
guess if you don't want a drink, you don't. And if you 
don't want a drink, you won't take one. Some philosophy, 
huh? Just a hangover from my college days. Don't mind 
it. But don't forget, you took it on yourself not to drink. 
If you regret it, don't blame me. 

Now that that's over, I'll begin again. Eleven months 
ago I was a New York newspaperman and like all New 
York newspapermen I wanted to get up in the world, 
All I wanted was a chance — only half a chance. 

Eleven months ago my chance came. Or at least I 
thought it did. Our paper was sending a new man to 
Russia to write feature articles about the conditions in 
that country. He wasn't to be a correspondent, just a 
feature writer to travel around and write about general 
conditions. Volunteers were requested. Like the over- 
ambitious, unlucky fool I was, I volunteered. You see I 
was dumb, ignorant, and plain stupid. I was totally igno- 
rant of how things were run over there, and, if I had 
known, it wouldn't have mattered. I would have volun- 
teered anyway. 

My cursed good luck was with me. I got the job. The 
managing editor called me in one day, congratulated me, 
gave me instructions, money and a good pep talk, and 
sent me on my way. 

Of course all this was done with the consent, even ap- 
proval, of the Russian government. It had given its con- 
sent to my paper and to prove its enthusiasm gave me a 
guide to take me over the country and act as companion 
and interpreter. Also he was, without my knowledge, to 
censor my articles. 

His name was Litkov, but I was promptly informed by 
him he was to be known as Comrade. I, too, would be 
Comrade to him. He had been to school outside his coun- 
try but his mind was too Russian and too communistic 
to have anything else but this. So Comrade was he and 

—25— 



so was I. 

My comrade was thoroughly Russian as I said before. 
But his schooling had made him a perfect gentleman. As 
a host he has never had his equal; and his good will 
was not ephemeral. For two months he showed me the 
best time I ever had in my life. Nothing was too good 
for me. The full use of government authority was given 
him to use in my behalf and he didn't spare it a tittle. 

For two months we wandered over Russia at random, 
going hither and yon wherever fancy dictated. Always 
it was the same. Russian after Russian groveled before 
the distinguished visitor and did all he could to help him. 
My articles were easily gathered, written, and cabled off. 
Everything was so easy I was afraid I might soon be re- 
called. I wanted to stay there the rest of my life. That's 
how pleasant they can make things when they want to. 
But, oh, when they don't want to! And that's what I'm 
coming to now. 

Everything had been covered then — in my articles — 
except the one big thing, Moscow. To Moscow we went, 
my comrade and I — I to enjoy myself and to write sev- 
eral articles concerning the high efficiency of the govern- 
ment and he to entertain me and make sure my articles 
were complimentary. Oh, no, I didn't know it then. I 
didn't find out he was checking up on me till later. Then 
it didn't matter. 

Moscow was, in good old American slang, hot stuff. 
It was the crowning point of my journey thus far. My 
work was made easier and my stay was made more, 
though it seems hardly possible, pleasant. 

Don't rush me, please. I'll get to it in time. All this 
I'm saying is important. 

Every morning we, Comrade and I, went around to 
different places, gathering material for my stories. He 
took me to just the places where I could get dope without 
too much trouble and without too much truth. Everything 
was so easy I should have been suspicious, but I wasn't. 

There things were. I was having the time of my life, 
my paper was getting stories and Russia was getting good 
propaganda. It was too sweet. Something had to break. 

And it did. 

The second week of our stay in Moscow, Comrade came 
to my hotel a little earlier than usual and rushed up to 

—26— 



my room without being announced. 

I remember that meeting as if it were yesterday. I 
should. I had three months to think it over. I was foggy- 
headed and bleary-eyed from the night before but his 
agitation soon cleared me up. 

"Comrade, comrade, " he said, when I was sufficiently 
awake, "I've come to say good-bye. " 

"Why," I protested, "you are supposed to stay with 
me till my job is over. I have two more weeks yet. You 
can't leave yet." 

He smiled pityingly, yet fondly. "I know. But important 
business is on. Two spies have been arrested and con- 
victed and I have been given the honor of executing 
them." 

He meant it. To him it was an honor. But I was still 
desirous of his company. 

"Why can't you have the execution here and then con- 
tinue on as my escort?" I queried. 

Again he smiled pityingly, this time at my ignorance. 

"Comrade, my comrade," he soothed, "don't you know- 
such an honor as I have received means further promo- 
tion? Immediately after the execution I report to the 
Commissar for the assignment. So, you see, it is goodbye." 

"Goodbye it is, then," I replied. "But still I can be 
with you a little longer. Besides, it will make a good 
story. I will go with you to the execution." 

He looked dubious. "Visitors are not allowed." Then 
he encouraged. "But perhaps it can be arranged. Come, 
let us go." 

On the way to the prison, I confided in him my wonder 
at the pleasure he took in being appointed executioner. 

"We Russians are truly nationalistic," came the ans- 
wer, "and are only too glad to do anything in defense of 
our country. Killing spies is part of that defense. Con- 
sequently killing spies is a duty and an honor." 

It sounded logical — too damned logical. 

Then came the execution itself. Comrade and I were 
waiting in a courtyard inside the prison. Please listen 
carefully now for this is the most important part of my 
story. We were facing a wall. Presently an old man and 
a young girl walked up and with amazing self-possession 
placed themselves against the wall. The woman's beauty 
was incredible. I looked at her closely. 

—27— 



She and Comrade faltered and started toward each 
other at the same time. But she composed herself and 
he froze up. The blindfolds were put on and the two spies 
prepared for death. 

Comrade's sword went up. At the top of its arc, it 
wavered hesitatingly. Then it descended. 

Shots shattered the oppressive stillness and two corpses 
crumbled to the ground. 

Somehow or other I wanted to ridicule Litkov and all 
he stood for. I don't know what made me do it, but I did. 

He stood — pale and agitated — in the same place where 
he had let fall his sword. I spoke ironically. "Comrade, 
killing spies for your country is an honor; indeed it is, 
that is, until a beautiful girl enters the picture." 

He looked up. There were tears welling up in his eyes. 
Yes, even Russian army officers can cry. 

When he spoke, his voice broke. "Comrade, an officer 
in the Russian army is hardened to a lot, in fact, to most 
of things. But he still has a little sentiment. Permit me 
to repeat: killing spies for my country is an honor, even 
when that spy happens to be my own daughter." 

His daughter! It hit me like a thunderbolt. I opened 
my mouth to speak, but I was too late. 

He wheeled and left me. The next day I was arrested. 
Why, I don't know. I never was told. You can tell from 
the — say, buddy, you look shaky. Have a drink. There. 
I thought you'd do better with it. 



-28- 



The Church and Democracy 

By Stockman O'Rourke 



IN a pastoral letter made public in November the Cath- 
olic hierarchy of the United States proclaimed a cru- 
sade to spread the ideals of Christian Democracy through- 
out the Catholic school system. It is the response to the 
Pope's plea for a constructive program of social action 
and the challenge to the subversive forces which seek to 
"destroy all that is just and ennobling in liberty-loving 
America." 

It does not mean that the Catholic Church has neg- 
lected this activity in the past. The Church has always 
taught in her schools the doctrines which underlie the 
spirit of American democracy. The dignity and liberty of 
the human personality, love of country, justice to all 
men, the sovereignity of the people, and political equal- 
ity — all these fundamental principles find their firmest 
support in the precepts of the natural law as promul- 
gated by the Church. However, it does mean that the 
Church will mjake definite and determined efforts to 
systematize and to emphasize the teaching of the rights 
and duties of citizens under the American form of govern- 
ment. Attacks are being made upon democratic principles 
and institutions. The Catholic . Church has decided that 
the best defense against these attacks is a strong offense. 

Now that the Church comes forward as a protector of 
democratic government it may seem to many that she is 
playing a new role — that she is, perhaps, adapting her 
teachings to the press of circumstances. This view is far 
from true. The Church from her very beginning has 

—29— 



taught, defended, and practiced the principles of Christ- 
ian Democracy. Though many Catholics and non-Catholics 
may be ignorant of the fact, democracy owes an incal- 
culable debt to Catholicism. Even a cursory examination 
of Catholic contributions to democracy will vouch for 
this statement. 

When Catholicism first appeared the two greatest evils 
besetting humanity were slavery and the degraded con- 
dition of women — conditions which controvert the nar- 
rowest defiinition of democracy. The Church immediately 
set about the task of ameliorating the conditions of the 
slaves, educating them for their new condition, and 
emancipating them. The earliest Fathers spoke out strong- 
ly for the principle that was to become the first "self- 
evident" truth of American democracy. Said St. Paul in 
the first century : "There is neither Jew nor Greek, there 
is neither bound nor free, there is neither male nor fe- 
male. For you are all one in Christ Jesus." Nor did the 
Church hesitate to carry out her theories in practice. 
Among her saints, her priests, and her popes were num- 
bered many of the humble and despised, many of the 
poor, yes, and many of the slaves. By elevating marriage 
to the dignity of a sacrament, the Church in one stroke 
raised the position of women from the degraded level of 
paganism to the honored and venerated level of the 
Christian concept. 

In the Middle Ages — the age of Catholicism — many of 
the constituent principles of Christian Democracy had 
their beginnings. Under the guild system the rights and 
liberties of the workingmen were established and pro- 
tected. Conditions which trade unions now strive desper- 
ately to attain were regarded as a matter of course by 
mediaeval workers. Regulated salaries and hours of work, 
opportunities for rest and recreation, compensation for 
the aged, the sick, and for widows and orphans, oppor- 
tunities for advancement — all these the guilds provided 
under the influence of Catholicism. The Magna Carta, so 
long honored in English history as declaration of political 
rights, was nothing more than a list of the rights that the 
Church had long held as inviolable and which were now 
restored by King John through the efforts of a body of 
Catholic freemen headed by their Archbishop. In this 
way the Catholic Church brought about the firm establish- 
ment of the great democratic ideals of trial by jury, due 

—30— 



process of law, and property right of inheritance of 
widows and children, and representative government. 

One of the greatest contributions of the Catholic 
Church to Christian Democracy is the system of Scholastic 
Philosophy. All the great principles of the Declaration of 
Independence and the Constitution stem directly or in- 
directly from this system. The democratic origin of civil 
power, the duty of governments to protect the natural 
rights of man, the injustice of laws violating these rights, 
and the rights of active and passive resistance to unjust 
laws were all taught by Catholicism long before the exist- 
ence of the New World was even suspected. 

In modern times the Church has continued to spread 
the great gospel of democracy. Without advocating a par- 
ticular form of government, she has insisted upon a society 
governed by the Christian principles of justice and char- 
ity. The Church gazes upon in sorrow and attacks with 
vigor modern states in which the worth of the human per- 
sonality is disregarded. Once more she takes up the fight 
against those who attempt to trample the rights of man. 
This is no new fight for her and it is not surprising, there- 
fore, to find her once more at its head. 



—31— 



. . . That Mark Our Place 

A Play in One Act 

By F. Taylor Peck 
Dialogue 



The scene is one of the American cemeteries in France 
for the war dead. The rows of white crosses stretch off into 
the distance. On a bench to one side sits an aging man, resting 
his chin on his cane, and looking intently at the second figure, 
a young man. The young man is standing a few paces off 
watching the sun sink behind the farthest crosses. The elderly 
man, who is so continental in appearance, speaks with an 
American accent. We soon see that they have been conversing 
for quite a time, and are in the throes of an emotional silence. 

ELDER (sighing and shaking his head). You shouldn't 
be so bitter against the world. Such cynicism doesn't be- 
come one so young. 

YOUTH (whirling and facing the elder with angry 
tears in his voice). What right have you to judge? Is 
your father buried somewhere (indicates the fields) out 
there, somewhere you don't know and can't find? 

ELDER (mildly). I don't know whether my father is 
dead or not. 

YOUTH (startled into momentary silence). You . . . 
don't . . . know? Don't you care? 

ELDER. Naturally, I care. 

YOUTH. Then why— 

ELDER. I am a prodigal son who did not return. I ra,n 
away, knocked about the world, and then the war came 
to America. And here I am still. 

YOUTH. Still— 

ELDER. My going was no loss. My return would be 
no gain. 

—32— 



YOUTH. And yet what lias the world done for you 
that you are still so generous toward it? Has it ever 
given you a moment's happiness that it didn't ask an 
hour's suffering? 

ELDER. No, what you say is quite true, but such suffer- 
ing only makes me enjoy more fully the moments of peace 
and happiness when they do come. What more could you 
ask? 

YOUTH. Plenty ! What would you ask if all you could 
learn about your father is, "missing since December 24, 
1917; believed to have deserted to the enemy"? 

ELDER (drops his cane in amazement.) What? 
Believed to have deserted to the enemy! Why didn't you 
tell me this before? 

YOUTH. Can you blame me for not doing so? 

ELDER (in considerable confusion). Yes ... er ... no! 
It cannot be. My God, it cannot be. (Buries his head in 
his hands.) 

YOUTH (seating himself beside the elder, he speaks 
less harshly) . Say, I didn't mean to give you such a shock. 
But you see how I feel, now. 

ELDER. Yes, yes. I can see how you feel, now. But I 
thought you said your father was dead among the un- 
known. 

YOUTH. I did say that. That's what my mother 
thought. In fact, so did I until two years ago when I found 
this registered letter from the War Department to my 
family. It was among mother's things. 

ELDER. Among your mother's things? 

YOUTH. It was with her letters, and when she died 
(the elder stiffens to rigidity, as if to leap into the sun- 
set. His head bows, and his body droops forlornly. The 
youth keeps talking, rising and looking again into the 
distance) I came across it. What I could never under- 
stand is why she hadn't burnt it. 

ELDER (in a profound voice). My son, there are some 
things we mortals cannot destroy or erase. Such things as 
this end only in eternity. You, too, must bear the burden 
of your father's mistake. 

YOUTH (rather disturbed at the elder's tone). You 
sound as if you believed that my father, MY FATHER, 
could have done such a thing. Sir, my father was a re- 
spected man, honest, and a leading citizen of our town ! 

—33— 



ELDER. Greater men than he have fallen. 

YOUTH (enraged). Sir! I— 

ELDER (brings his cane crashing down on the bench, 
and says in equal anger). Silence, young man! You of 
the younger generation have the unpardonable trait of 
judging where the facts are unknown. Would it influence 
you any to know that I knew your father? 

YOUTH (left wordless by this). You— 

ELDER. Yes, I knew your father. 

YOUTH. Then why didn't you say so sooner? All this — 

ELDER. Forget it. I wanted to see what kind of boy 
you were before I told you. If you had been less bitter, 
less soured against world and man, I would have told you 
sooner, but as it is — (shrugs). 

YOUTH (falling on his knees before the elder.) Please 
tell me all you know of him. It's a torture to have the 
answer so near yet so inaccessible. How could I ever 
thank and repay you for such a service ! Tell me, did he 
die in action? (There is a long silence, in which the elder 
seems to gather himself for a tremendous struggle. When 
he speaks it is in a dull, toneless voice, his eyes looking 
straight in front of him, not at the youth.) 

ELDER. Your father ... a member of my company . . . 
was blown — was killed by the explosion of a mine on the 
Hindenburg Line. His body was never recovered, so you 
won't find his grave. 

YOUTH. How do you know all this? 

ELDER. Does it matter? I was his friend. Now will you 
give up this useless search for that which isn't, this bitter- 
ness against the world ? Won't you forget this mighty hate 
and these cringing fears for his sake? 

YOUTH. Yes, I will change now, for I'm satisfied. I 
am certain of his guiltlessness. If mother might have 
known! (Rises, and turns again to the horizon.) 

ELDER. Your mother knew the truth! 

YOUTH. Yes, she must have known. (Turns to the 
elder and extends his hand.) How can I ever thank you 
for what you have done for me. If there is any way at 
all I might be of service — 

ELDER. There is nothing, my boy, nothing. Go on 
your way through the world, but remember this time to 
find those moments of happiness it offers. 

YOUTH. I will ! I will ! (He turns and walks away from 

—34— 



the elder, who is standing tensely erect now, but he 
turns abruptly.) Did you ever hear my father say this? 
Play me not a mournful tune, 

Not notes that sound of tears, 
No ballad of a mighty hate, 
Nor those of cringing fears. 
It was in the only letter of his that I could find. Were 
you there when he wrote it? 

ELDER (hesitating, then in vigorous denial). No, I 

have never listened to that poem. Is that the only verse? 

YOUTH. No, there is another, but I must hurry to the 

station. Goodbye, monsieur, and thank you again. (Exit, 

humming happily to himself.) 

ELDER (sinks slowly to the bench, his gaze fixed on 
the retreating figure. He says softly but distinctly) : 
Rather my listening heart 
With fantasies of song 
That soar to joyous, ringing heights 
And linger ever long. 
My God! MY SON! (He collapses, sobbing on the 
bench.) 

Curtain 



To A Flirt 

A translation of Horace's Ad Pyrrham 

What perfumed youth embraces you in yon tow'r? 

O Pyrrha, in your rose garden there 

For whom do you bind back your blonde hair, 

Simplicity giving its beauty power? 

Alas, how he will regret his faithful hour 

And like a sailor marvel at the air, 

At once grown wild and filling him with care. 

Knowing you only as you seem to be, 

Hoping (vainly) that you will ever be free, 

He believes your love as strong as a tower — 

O wretched men, dazzled by what you see ! 

Now, as a sailor, who freed from the gale, 

Give thanks to the pow'rs of the deep, 

So do I, freed of your heart of mail. 

Stockman O'Rourke 

—35— 



Press Gleanings 



CASES of mistaken identity are common ... In New 
York a throng of women lustily cheered the former 
English minister of foreign affairs in the mistaken belief 
that he was either Robert Taylor or Clark Gable . . . Slum- 
ber has drawbacks and advantages ... In Omaha a man, 
forgetting he left a pot of stew over a gas fire, went to 
sleep and woke up to find firemen bursting into his apart- 
ment to douse the burnt stew . . . But a traveling salesman 
in Philadelphia refused to let a conflagration disturb him 
and continued his slumbers even though forcibly removed 
in the bed's blanket from his burning house. 

The wave of crime continues unabated ... In San 
Francisco a thief, nonplussed by three suitcases in a 
parked car, unwittingly chose the one that contained an 
assortment of diapers ... A WPA connoisseur of fine 
viands was arrested in Ohio for stealing two big cheeses. 
Grilled the prisoner glibly admitted other burglaries of 
tasty foods . . . Coast guard planes are now used to ferret 
out illicit stills ... A resident of Philadelphia foiled a 
bandit by luring him to a taproom where the arrest was 
made. 

Justice was defeated when a Kentucky jury reprieved 
two canines accused of maiming a turkey. Kentucky law 
executes dogs convicted of killing or maiming livestock 
. . . And a magistrate in Philadelphia held that bidding a 
lady good night did not constitute sufficient reason for 
issuing an overtime parking summons . . . Justice pre- 
vailed, however, when a Mobile judge ruled a police third- 
degree ample punishment for a charge of disorderly con- 
duct and resisting arrest ... In New Orleans three men 
were given federal sentences for defacing WPA project 
buildings with creosote. 

Domestic tangles continue to plague the courts ... In 
Cleveland an eye-blackened wife vainly pleaded with a 
judge to free her divorce-seeking spouse of a six months' 
sojourn in the workhouse ... A Chicago judge granted a 

— 2G— 



divorce to a woman whose erstwhile mate jazzed up 
classic opera on the piano ... A strangled corpse, attired 
in women's apparel and makeup, fooled hardened Illinois 
cops until a mortician disclosed the cadaver to be a man. 

The aged entered the spotlight momentarily ... In 
Mississippi a county poorhouse was caught slowly starv- 
ing aged inmates to death. Moreover, the accommodating 
authorities were thoughtfully providing hogs and chickens 
as roommates for the aged ... In Pennsylvania an aged 
man pinioned by the thumb to a wrecked car, calmly 
hacked off the digit with his penknife . . . An eighty four- 
year-old Cleveland woman pleaded with city hospital 
authorities to keep her job so that she might continue to 
support her fifty-four-year-old son. The request was 
granted. 

Animals are always good copy ... In Saskatchewan a 
huge herd of caribou held up a train twenty-four hours 
while they crossed the tracks ... In Indiana a bird hound 
gained a new lease of retrieving when a gold crown was 
affixed to a tooth ... A Michigan farmer sentenced his 
prize bull to the yoke of a plow after he tired of being 
chased all over the pasture by the said bovine ... A 
Wisconsin bull, not to be outdone, tore up a porch and 
door to get at a citizen, diverted his attention to arriving 
deputies, and then docilely followed his master home- 
ward ... A fox, disturbed in an Iowa chicken yard, 
slipped through an open kitchen door and devoured a 
platter of buckwheat cakes until discovered and shot . . . 
The pig sty landing of a model gas plane so frightened 
the pigs that it took them days to recover their equilib- 
rium . . . Airlines are equipping their transport planes 
with duck deflectors to prevent neighborly ducks from 
crashing through the cockpit to visit the pilots ... A 
Montana grizzly frightened two women out of their wits 
when he fell off a hillside on top of their car. No damage 
was done except to Bruin who lumbered dazedly away . . . 
Oak Park, Ill.'s phantom scare was nothing more ex- 
citing than a big green parrot whose choice of language 
shocked even the sophisticated police ... As penalty for 
letting his pet rattlesnake bite him, a California mother 
compelled her menagerie-collecting son to sell the snake 
to pay hospital bills . . . After investing in six frying chick- 
ens, a Kentucky restauranteur pried one open and found 

—37— 



a five-dollar gold tooth. 

Even universities are vexed by housing problems . . . 
In Cleveland the faculty of John Carroll University solved 
the problem by parking their apparel on laboratory skel- 
etons and specimen jars and sleeping under dissecting 
tables. 

The afflicted sometimes put the able-bodied to shame. 
... In Ohio an armless man so successfully demonstrated 
his ability to drive a car with his feet that he will probably 
be awarded a motorist's license . . . Many leap blindly in 
the dark, but it took a blind Pittsburgh freshman to make 
the University track team as a high jumper. 

Suits continue to be pressed ... In California a woman 
won a judgment for absorbing the force of a wet sponge 
that plunged six stories atop her head ... In New Orleans 
a seaman sued a steamship company for bruises sustained 
by the repercussion of a gun-shooting life line. 

Accidents happen even in the best of families ... In 
Alabama a sleeping parent accidently killed his infant 
son by rolling over him in bed ... A Boston man, carry- 
ing a sack of coal on his back, climbed twelve steps of a 
building without mishap. As he reached the thirteenth he 
toppled backwards and fractured his skull . . . Two men 
in a car escaped unscathed after their machine hurdled 
two ditches, an embankment and a creek before landing 
wrecked on the road it left ... A bolt of lightning set off 
a New York railroad fire siren that screeched forty min- 
utes before repairs could be made . . . Violence occasion- 
ally prevails when gentler methods fail ... In Illinois a 
farmers' milk cooperative brought local dairy companies 
to terms by beating up milk truck drivers and spilling 
their loads. 

Stranger things have happened . . . Iowa state liquor 
permit books so closely resemble bank books that many 
a man has unknowingly tried to enter his deposits in 
them ... A purse lost eight years ago in an Illinois hotel 
was found recently on the upper ledge of a window. 

The police make the headlines in more ways than one. 
. . . Tennessee has a deputy sheriff whose 465 pounds 
makes him the biggest cop in the state. He used to weigh 
700 before he began to diet . . . The New York City police 
department is offering former college football stars spec- 
ial inducements to join the force. 

—38— 



American exports thus far this year exceed imports . . . 
But gustatory appetites are still whetted by foreign 
cheeses, vegetables, nuts and fruits in ever increasing 
quantities . . . Investigations prove that the millions Amer- 
ican women invest in silk hose purchase little more than 
an ounce of silk in each pair or eleven cents out of every 
eighty-five cents worth of silk hosiery. 

Spice international enters the day's news . . . Great 
Britain will welcome Mr. and Mrs. Edward Windsor if 
the madam is not accorded the rank and position of the 
wives of Edward's ducal brothers . . . Chinese strategists 
pulled a fast one on the Japanese. Pseudo deserters lured 
a Jap military expedition to a village in interior Amoy 
where at midnight a withering blast of gun-fire disor- 
ganized the invaders who fled pellmell after the loss Of 
400 men . . . Nazi Germany took British criticism of the 
anti-Jewish purges very neighborly until the British prime 
minister suggested that Tanganyika, formerly German 
East Africa, be converted into a haven for German Jews. 
. . . Japan has decreed that phonographic recordings of 
"hot" music are detrimental to public morals. At the 
same time the Nipponese are agitating against bobbed 
hair for their women on the grounds that it produces bald- 
ness . . . Family tanks have replaced family cars in Soviet 
Russia. The idea has been spread, too, to family war 
planes and family machine gun units. 

The realm of sports is not to be outdone ... In New 
York a football fan dislocated her jaw while cheering for 
her team ... In an Ohio college a football trainer this 
season used twenty-four miles of adhesive tape and a 
hundred gallons of alcohol on his charges . . . Barefoot 
football is in vogue on the sandlots of Hawaii . . . One 
wrestler, probably taking his tossing and squirming in 
the ring to heart, specializes in collecting (non-pink) 
snakes . . . An idea that's worth cultivating on college 
campuses was introduced in New York . . . The coach 
of a professional football team pays ten dollars for each 
intercepted pass or blocked punt that leads to a touch- 
down. 



-39— 



Spring Hill Quarterly 






VOLUME I . (WINTER) 1939 NUMBER 2 

t&f /^ Spying 

Contents 

THE AFTERMATH (verse) . David Loveman 5 

WHY FEDERAL DEFICIT SPENDING? (article) __John L. Bacon 6 

HOLIDAY (short-story) Autry D. Greer 15 

ACT OF CONTRITION (verse) Edward Balthrop 17 

PROPAGANDA (article) F. Taylor Peck 18 

AGAIN THERE IS LAUGHTER (short story) David Loveman 29 

CONCERNING CONVERSATION (essay) Stockman O'Rourke 22 

EDITORIALS 24 

SINGING RIVER (verse) Caldwell Delaney 26 

BAD HISTORY MAKES GOOD VERSE 

(essay) Thomas F. Sweeney 28 

SHE KNEW HIM BEST (article) Louis J. Maloof 32 

SECOND DREAM (short-story) Jack T. Halladay 35 

PRESS GLEANINGS 40 



THE SPRING HILL QUARTERLY is published in December, February, April, and June 
by the students of Spring Hill College. Subscription: one dollar the year, thirty cents 
the copy. Address all communications and manuscripts to THE SPRING HILL QUAR- 
TERLY, Spring Hill College, Spring Hill, Alabama. Entered as second class matter 
under a temporary permit, December 22, 1938, at the Post Office at Spring Hill, Alabama. 



The Aftermath 



The sweep of snow, the power of eternity are blended ; 

mystic, tragic night and all the nocturnal things 

find comfort in the magnitude of my futility. 

The gambler who has lost ! The suicide ! 

I am despicable — the essence of hopelessness. I am 

a refugee from life 

seeking solace in my selfishness. 

My inner consciousness awakes and threatens to engulf 

me. 
Remorse ! No ! I am cynical. My armor that I forged 
of bitterness and aching heart, 
my sword of ego endorse my craftsmanship. 
Within myself I would withdraw. 
Whither? 
Like the shadow of the fleeing bird in the forest of the 

night 
I cloak myself in obscurity against the world. 

The attainment of what I seek is superfluous, 

for the conquest of the process marks my achievement. 

My selfishness is uncontrollable. 

It motiates my existence. 

It seeks to destroy me. 

My journey lies within a valley devoid of light. 

The atmosphere reeks of vanity, 

of self-pity. 

Is it destruction I would know? 

Wherein do I seek to destroy? 

Life? 

Long since I have stripped myself 

of worth, of happiness, of promise by my greed. 

My life is no longer mine to destroy. 

It is the foil of my avarice and passions. 

Beauty? 

It echoes emptiness for me. It has, 

since the beginning, been irrevocably lost. 

Myself? 

Response cannot come from a thing so soiled 

to contradict this knowledge of despair. 

It is inevitable. 

My soul is dead. 

—DAVID LOVEMAN. 

—5— 



Why federal Deficit Spending? 

• John L. Bacon 



IN the closing days of the first month of this year 
Congress set the appropriation for WPA at $725,000,- 
000, to be extended over the period from February 7 
through June 30. The final appropriation approved by the 
Congress was $150,000,000 lower than that asked by Pres- 
ident Roosevelt, and the cut was effected only after pro- 
longed and stubbornly contested debate in both Houses. 
Naturally, details of the debate found their way to the 
front pages of all newspapers, and set most of us won- 
dering just why the government deemed it expedient to 
expend an average of $3,000,000,000 a year for the pur- 
poses, as it called them, of "Recovery and Relief." 

All of us realized that much of the money went to the 
direct relief of the distress of the unemployed. Most of 
us realized,, in a rather vague way, generally, that it 
had another end, the bringing about of natural recovery. 
But just how it operates to effect this end is a point 
most of us are unfamiliar with. 

In this article, an attempt is made to explain the theory 
and practice of what we may call "Federal Business 
Stimulation Spending," or, as it is more commonly known, 
pump-priming. As far as possible, the treatment is ob- 
jective ; it is intended to be a factual outline of the theory 
of pump-priming, how that theory works in practice, and 
what the general results of the present Administration's 
business stimulation efforts have been. 

By the name, "pump-priming," is meant, most briefly, 
that program or system of spending public funds by 
which the government hopes to stimulate the lagging 
economic machine. "Government spending is like a cat- 
alytic agent which is used to awake dormant forces to 
become active in the performance of their . . . functions." 1 

So pump-priming, as the word indicates, is intended 
as an antidote to depression. And on this theory there 
are two schools of thought. One, the so-called "pump- 
priming" group, strictly, advocates a large increase in 
public spending during depression, without a correspond- 
ing decrease during times of prosperity and recovery. 

The other, and the one with which we are concerned, 
since its principles are followed by the present Federal 
government in its pump-priming program, may be called 
the "balance-wheel" school of depression spending. The 
economists of this group maintain that the total amount 
of public works expenditures during a business cycle 

—6— 



should not be greater than the amount that would ordi- 
narily be spent over a similar period of normal years, 
but that the amount spent annually should be increased 
during depression, and decreased correspondingly during 
recovery and prosperity. "Briefly, the theory is that pub- 
lic works construction, (construction under public juris- 
diction), expenditures for which are controlled by legis- 
lation, should be withheld in prosperous times and re- 
leased during the periods of depression to reduce the 
influence of depression." 2 

Since depression is invariably characterized by de- 
creased business activity and withholding of new funds 
for investment and the necessary acceleration of business 
activity, the problem is to encourage business to resume 
its ordinary pace. And by these Federal expenditures, it 
is hoped to create direct and indirect employment and 
increase production, until this quickening of the business 
pulse inspires private enterprise to take over its normal 
activities. Further, the system of increased spending in 
depression, when business activity is subnormal, and de- 
creased spending in prosperous times, when business 
activity is frequently abnormal, is designed to act as a 
balancing weight on the fluctuations of the business cy- 
cle, making the downswing less acute and checking a too 
steep and unsound prosperity climb. "The effect should 
be a tendency to check profits in periods of prosperity 
and therefore to moderate the upward swing. During 
depressions, on the other hand, their expenditures should 
help maintain the general level of consumption." 3 

Under the present system of pump-priming pursued 
by the Federal government, three principal methods are 
employed to bring about the hoped-for business recovery : 
direct relief, public works and financial manipulation, 
chiefly through Reconstruction Finance Corporation 
credit. 

In the first of these, relief, government funds are given 
directly to the unemployed working on various so-called 
"manicuring projects," i.e., work that is "created" for 
the particular end of giving employment to the unem- 
ployed. 4 

The economic effect of this relief, in relation to the 
national economy as a whole, is chiefly to maintain pur- 
chasing power, since about 80 per cent of all relief ex- 
penditures falls directly into the hands of the workers 
on relief. 

The second type, public works, consists in the erection 
and construction of permanent public buildings, improve- 
ment projects, such as flood-control systems, and all pub- 

—7— 



lie construction whose direct end is the stimulation of 
business. It is distinguished from relief by several factors: 
the permanency and utility, generally, of the work done, 
the employment of qualified workmen, and the higher 
percentage of expenditures for material. 54.9 per cent 
of expenditures going to cost of materials used. 

Since over half of the expenditures for Public Works 
goes for the products of industry, particularly the capital- 
goods industries, public works' stimulatory stress is on 
the revival of the capital-goods industries, which are not 
directly affected by the increased purchasing-power given 
by relief money, most of which goes into consumption 
purchases. 

The third of the measures taken by the government to 
stimulate business was the extension of credit through 
the Reconstruction Finance Corporation, in the form of 
loans to public authorities and public works enterprises 
of municipalities and to private enterprise. 

The budget of the RFC for 1934, which may be used 
as typical, showed that the great bulk of RFC loans are 
to private enterprise. Of total expenditures of $1,691,478,- 
0Q0, $67,431,000 went to state and municipal public 
works projects, while the great bulk, $1,624,047,000, 
went to private enterprise. But these loans to private 
enterprise were not directly for the stimulation of pro- 
ductive enterprise; the entire $1,624,047,000 went to 
financial institutions, in the form of direct loans and the 
purchase of their securities. 

So the effect of RFC activities in their relation to the 
general program of business stimulation may be said 
to consist chiefly in the stimulation of credit activities, 
loosening of credit rigidity, and strengthening of the 
financial structure. 

A typical year's deficit spending was that of 1938; 
in that year the Federal government spent about $3,000,- 
000,000 for what it terms "Recovery and Relief." Of the 
$3,000,000,000 earmarked "Recovery and Relief," one 
and a half billion went for the present relief programs, 
and the rest for public works and any expansion of the 
relief program that was necessary. 

The economic effects of pump-priming are manifested, 
in general, in four ways: increased consumption pur- 
chasing, and, therefore, increased activities in the con- 
sumers' goods industries, increased capital-goods activity, 
increased investment, and, as a result of these three, a 
general increase in business activity. 

Before discussing each of these factors, it would be 
well to pause and point out a fundamental characteristic 

—8— 



of all government pump-priming systems, namely, the 
insignificance, in terms of physical quantity, of the sums 
expended by public authority in relation to total national 
income. In 1936, at the peak of Federal deficit spending, 
public works contributed $3,200,000,000 to a total na- 
tional income of $63,800,000,000. The effectiveness of 
public spending, therefore, is not dependent on mere 
quantity, but on other factors, the most important of 
which is proper timing. The opinion of economists on 
just what stage of the depression is the proper one for 
the application of Federal spending is divided, according 
to the individual's theories about the business cycle and 
depressions. Those who maintain that depressions form a 
useful function in purging the economic system of un- 
healthy conditions would wait until the upswing has 
commenced and then accelerate it by increased spending. 
Those, on the other hand, who believe that depressions 
are not self-corrective and are harmful to the economy 
would start the pump-priming early in the depression. 
In this latter group are the economists who guide the 
present Administration's policies. 

Further, the ultimate effectiveness of such a program 
must depend on the restoration of business confidence 
and willingness to expand its activities. Since such an 
insignificant portion of the national income as pump- 
priming contributes in sheer quantity cannot be expected 
to carry the business trend upwards on its size alone, it 
must have the effect of giving business confidence in the 
future to such a degree that business itself will take 
over, as explained before. 

Undoubtedly, Federal deficit spending increases con- 
sumption purchases, since it directly contributes between 
a billion and a billion and a half dollars yearly to the 
consumption incomes of the United States. And, more 
important, these purchases hearten the retail dealers, 
who in turn hire more men, thus relieving unemployment 
and increasing the purchasing power of these new em- 
ployees, who in turn purchase and continue the cycle, 
like the ring of ripples widening around a stone cast 
into a stagnant pool. How far those ripples of business 
activity will extend, however, is dependent, as previously 
emphasized, on the increase in confidence on the part 
of business men themselves. Income has been increased 
considerably by this program, total income of wage earn- 
ers in 1933, the year of the inception of Federal pump- 
priming, being $29,296,000*000, and in 1936, $41,250,- 
000,000. Work-relief contributed, directly, 3.3 per cent 



of the 1936 income; indirect computation, of course, be- 
ing impossible. 

Consumption purchases, however, are not the most 
important part of depression recovery. All through Amer- 
ican economic history, it has been the pace of activity 
in the capital-goods industry which has been the index 
of economic prosperity. Permanent recovery comes only 
with real recovery in the capital-goods industries, with 
their high labor factor in relation to the small labor fac- 
tor in many of the more heavily mechanized lines of 
consumption goods production and their large share of 
the total industrial capitalization of the national econ- 
omy. Further, it is in the heavy industries that the great- 
est unemployment exists. And, as we noted before, 
capital-goods production is not directly affected by in- 
creased consumption goods purchases. Therefore, relief 
expenditures do not, alone, contribute sufficiently to total 
business stimulation to bring about genuine recovery. It 
is through public works activities, with their direct stim- 
ulatory effect on the capital-goods industries, that final 
recovery must be effected. 

The question of pump-priming's stimulation of the 
capital-goods industries is a question of degree, not of 
fact, since it undoubtedly does stimulate it to some ex- 
tent. The general result of pump-priming, increased busi- 
ness activity, must make itself felt in the capital-goods 
industries. Further, the fact that pump-priming in the 
form of public-works contributes about half of its $1,500,- 
000,000 annual expenditures to the direct purchase of 
the products of the capital-goods industries materially 
aids those industries. 

But the chief need of the capital-goods industries, with 
their relatively low turnover and high fixed-capital 
charges, is new investment. Whether pump-priming 
meets this need, or whether, in fact, it may not defeat 
its own end by hindering investment in certain fields, 
is best discussed in its proper place, with the discussion 
of the effect of pump-priming on investment. It is worth 
noting, however, before going on, that, de facto, capital- 
goods activity has not been restored to its normal place 
in the national economy. In 1937, with industrial pro- 
duction at the same level as that of 1928, capital-goods 
purchases were 20 per cent below the level of 1928. 

The vital point, for our study, is this: has government 
pump-priming favored and stimulated investment, par- 
ticularly in the capital-goods and utilities industries? 
First, there are the plain facts, unadorned by any analy- 
sis of the casual interplay behind them. Investment has 

.-10— 



increased since 1933, the natal year of pump-priming. 
In 1933, total corporate issues were $381,600,000. In 
1936, they were $4,631,900,000. In 1929, however, they 
were $11,592,200,000. In 1928, industrial production was 
at 100 per cent, and new capital securities total $7,818,- 
000,000. In 1935, industrial production was at 98 per 
cent, new private capital issues at $2,267,400,000, only 
one-third of 1928's new issues. And, according to David 
Jordan, in his Investments, the average annual demand 
for new capital is between ten and fifteen billion dollars. 5 

So it may be safely stated that, no matter what pump- 
priming has done to stimulate consumers' purchases and 
re-employment, it has failed to strengthen and encourage 
the investment market that is so vital to industrial enter- 
prise. The capital-goods industries and the utilities, vital- 
ly dependent on investment, have not been benefited to 
the extent that the consumers' goods industries have been. 

Several factors may be cited to explain this failure of 
investment to keep stride with other phases of American 
business. 

The first one, although by far not the first in impor- 
tance, is the simple physical fact that less than one-fourth 
of the government's expenditures have gone to the direct 
aid of the industries needing investment. Of the $3,000,- 
000,000 spent annually on business stimulation, $1,500,- 
000,000, or one-half, goes to purchases of consumer's 
goods, and of the remaining one-half, only $750,000,000, 
or one-fourth of the entire total, goes to the purchase of 
the goods of the heavy industries. So they are not 
strengthened by the increase in business activity; their 
financial position, not being materially aided, does not 
warrant any great increase in the issuance of new secur- 
ities, and consequently, the assumption of new liabilities. 

The chief reason, in the opinion of many authorities, 
for the failure of pump-priming to restore investment 
activity is that the confidence of business in the security 
and opportunity of the future has not been restored. 
There is, on the part of a great group of investors, a fear 
of the basic soundness of the Federal government, if the 
present fiscal policies are to be pursued in the future. 
They fear inflation when the steadily mounting debt 
comes due, and are uncertain of the future of the mone- 
tary policy. And of course, debt burdens on industry are 
increasing steadily each year, even though $34,000,000,- 
000 of the government's present $36,000,000,000 debt is 
in long term obligations. Debt service on this sum alone 
amounts to $1,000,000,000 annually, however. 

—li— 



; 



A very definite indication of the existence of this fear 
was given in the behavior of the securities market last 
November, when stocks and bonds reached the highest 
peak of activity in several years immediately following 
the considerable Republican gains in the November elec- 
tions. 

Pump-priming, of course, is not the sole cause of the 
uncertainty and fear, but it is, probably, the major cause, 
because it contributes the greatest portion of the annual 
deficit. For 1937, for instance, the Federal government 
received $5,294,000,000 in receipts and spent $8,446,- 
000,000. Of this total expenditure, the item of "Relief 
and Recovery" composed $3,077,000,000, practically the 
entire deficit. 

A third important factor which has contributed to the 
failure of pump-priming to restore private corporate in- 
vestment to its normal level is the competition offered by 
government bonds, which, tax-exempt, and the highest 
grade security in the country, have a tremendous appeal 
to rich investors, who are benefited by the tax-free posi- 
tion when buying in large quantities, as they do. And the 
rich investors comprise the chief market for securities; 
2.3 per cent of the families of the United States, those 
having yearly incomes of over $10*000.00, contributed 
over two-thirds of the total savings of the country. 

So, as H. G. Moulton has pointed out, "a large portion 
of the savings of indjviduals and business corporations 
has gone to finance government deficits." 6 In 1928, total 
corporate issues amounted to $7,817,800,000 and total 
Federal government issues to $63,900,000. The 1936 total 
corporate issues declined to $4,632,000,000, while gov- 
ernment issues made the tremendous leap to $1,120,700,- 
000, one-fourth of the issues of that year. 

So it is plain that, as we noted originally, pump-priming 
has, to some extent, increased investment. But a further 
analysis of this fact has indicated that it has not restored 
it to its normal pre-depression relationship to the rest of 
the economy, and may, perhaps, have actually hindered 
it in various ways. 

The fourth effect of Federal business stimulation 
spending, increased business activity, is the natural se- 
quence of the operation of the three primary results, 
i.e., increased consumption purchases, increased capital- 
goods activities, and increased investment. The general 
relationship of pump-priming to business activity is 
shown in Table I. 

—12— 



TABLE I 
Relationship of Pump-Priming to the Business Index 

(Add 000,000 in money figures) 

1933 1934 1935 1936 1937 
Business Week 

Business Index 68 73 85 104 111 

Total funds spent for 

Recovery and Relief $1,276 $4,002 $3,656 $3,290 $2,846 

From this table it can be seen that the business index 
has risen in proportion to Federal spending. The low 
initial response in 1934 to the 1933 spending was rem- 
edied by the favorable response in 1935 to 1934's greatly 
expanded rush of government funds. From then until the 
spring of 1937, the index gradually rose, while Federal 
expenditures were gradually decreased. Although the 
table does not reflect it, since its 1937 average is high 
owing to early gains, in the summer of that year, the 
government decreased its expenditures by $40,000,000 a 
month, maintaining that level until December, 1937. And 
from July, 1937, the date of the decrease, until Decem- 
ber, 1937, the business index dropped steadily, tumbling 
from 122 to 83 over the six months period, a 45 point 
drop. With the resumption of pump-priming at 500 mil- 
lion a month, in July, 1938, the index immediately began 
to rise again, remaining today in the 90s. Certainly this 
intimate co-relation of spending and business activity in- 
dicates a casual relationship between the two. 

In summary, we have seen that Federal deficit spend- 
ing for the purpose of stimulating business is intended 
as an antidote to depressions; that it hopes to stimulate 
business, not by sheer quantity expenditures, but by 
spending these sums when private business fears to ex- 
pand, hoping by this policy of releasing new money to 
increase purchases of consumer's goods and activity in 
the capital-goods industries, and that this increased activ- 
ity will result in private business finding new confidence 
and assuming itself the burden of recovery. 

The two chief types of spending, that through relief 
and that through public works, have the double effect 
of stimulating consumption purchases and capital-goods 
activity. The first, relief, has been effective to a great ex- 
tent, as the increase in wage-earners income and general 
business activity indicates. But permanent relief can come 
only through genuine recovery in the capital-goods field, 
and this recovery is helped by public-works expenditures! 
However, investment is the chief need of the capital- 
goods industries, and investment has failed to recover to 

—13— 



the extent that the rest of the economy has. And until 
investment and capital-goods activity do recover fully, 
recovery itself will not be complete or sound. 

1 Arthur M. Lamport, in an address to the New York State Chamber of Commerce, 
Conflres,sional Record, vol. 83, p. 3986. 

2 Construction Expenditures and Unemployment, 1925-1936, Works Progress 
Administration, 1938, p. 1. 

3 Arthur Gayer, Public Works in Prosperity and Depression, p. 319. 

4 McCabe and Lester, Labor and Social Organization, pp. 258-262. 

5 Lavid Jordan, Jordan on Investments, p. 3. 

6 H. G. Moulton, The Formation of Capital, pp. 136-137. 



—14— 



Holiday 

• Autry D. Greer 



IT was spring. The early morning was warm, and 
the air smelled clean and fresh, and sweet with the 
odor of newly turned earth and fruit trees in bloom. A 
mild wind rustled leaves that were still damp with dew, 
and the sunlight, as it filtered through the leaves and 
branches of giant, moss-draped oaks, formed quivering 
shadows on the white sandy road. Beneath these oaks, 
crickets droned in a treble key from the grass and thicket 
jutting the road from the freshly plowed farmland, and 
an occasional thrush rustled the foliage of the thicket in 
search of food. 

To the west, hills loomed through a blue mist, and 
showed jagged scars where fire had raked the wooded 
slopes. 

As the two of them walked, George kicked up the 
loose, white sand of the road and watched the myriad, 
glistening particles fall back to earth. 

"It's a fine morning, isn't it?" 

"It surely is," said Ellen smiling. 

"Just think, we'll be at the top of the big one in the 
middle by noon," George said as he pointed to the hills. 

They walked on in silence for a while and George 
glanced at Ellen beside him. She was small, but well- 
built. The sun rays made little lights play in her taffy- 
colored hair, and without makeup, her long slender face 
was clean and shiny. 

Ellen looked again at the hills. 

"Are we really going to walk all the way to Evans' 
Point, George?" 

"Sure, why not? We've got plenty of time." 

"But we haven't any lunch." 

"We can get some food at the little store near the top, 
and eat it by the lake. It'll be fun." 

"Let's just walk to the foot of the hill, George. It is 
nearly seven miles to the top of that place." 

"Why do you mind, we've got all day. If you had some- 
thing else to do, you should have stayed at home and 
not come this far." 

"Let's not fuss, George." 

"Okay, but I don't get many holidays, and when I do 
get one, I like to do something worthwhile. Besides, it'll 
be fine exercise." 

"Yes, I know, but I'm not used to walking fourteen 
miles in one day," Ellen said. 

—15— 



i 



An automobile horn blew and George pulled Ellen to 
the side of the road. 

"Don't be so rough," she said. 

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to get you out of danger." 

A Model T sputtered by. It was driven by an old man 
wearing a battered, stained felt hat and overalls; two 
small boys sat in the back seat. All three looked at George 
and Ellen as they passed, and the boys said something 
to them they couldn't understand. The couple got back 
in the center of the road. 

"The Duchess is in a high temper this morning, I be- 
lieve," George said, looking askance at her. 

"No, I'm not, you just didn't have to grab me that way." 

"I repeat, the Duchess' cup of bitterness runneth over 
on this lovely morn." 

Ellen flushed: "George, I'm not mad, and please stop 
calling me that horrible name." 

"If the Duchess was not in a high temper, methinks 
the Duchess is now," George said, smiling to himself. 

Ellen stopped walking and faced him : "George, if you 
are going to act this way, I'm going back now." 

"All right, Sweet, we'll be friends, I was only jesting 
with you." 

The road wound through patches of scrub oak and 
pine. It sank down into a small wooded valley and at the 
bottom of this declivity was a stream crossed by a rick- 
ety, wooden bridge. In quiet pools near the banks of the 
stream, green lily pads floated; some with blossoms 
shaped like spear points, white at the base and saffron 
tipped. Bay and laurel trees leaned over the dark, sinewy 
water and cast still darker shadows on the surface. The 
stream moved swiftly at the middle, and where it eddied 
over roots and logs, gurgling, silver bubbles were formed. 
In the shallows, the sandy bottom could be seen, and light 
through the water gave the sand beneath a golden hue. 

"I'm thirsty. Let's drink some," George said. 

"It looks too black and nasty, I don't want any." 
George grunted at this remark. He left the bridge and 
carefully slipped down the clay slope and knelt at the 
water's edge. He scooped the cool watey to his lips with 
cupped hands. It tasted clean and was refreshing. 

He felt that she was looking at him. He turned : "Don't 
you want some?" he asked. She looked away but did not 
answer. George drank again and then walked back up on 
the bridge. He put his arm around Ellen's waist and felt 
her body stiffen as he pulled her to him. 
"How about a kiss, Sweet," he said. 
"No," she said, turning her head. 

—16— 



"We aren't doing so hot, are we?" 

"Let's go," Ellen said, as George released her. 

"Maybe, you'd really like to go home," he said, looking 
at hpr 

"I think I would." 

"Well, why don't you?" 

Ellen hesitated and then looked up into his face : "Do 
you want me to go back by myself?" she asked. 

"I don't mind." 

"All right, I will." 

She turned and walked back along the road. When she 
had gone some distance, George started to call her back. 
He could see that she was crying. 

"Goodbye," he called. 

Ellen didn't answer. He watched her climb the slope 
until the grove of oaks hid her from sight. George walked 
to the rail of the bridge and looked at the water. He 
picked up a lump of clay left by an automobile tire on 
the bridge, and tossed it into the water. Particles of it 
dissolved and followed the current, but the large nucleus 
sank unevenly to the bottom. Then George started on 
towards Evans' Point. 

"This isn't quite the day I'd planned," he said aloud. 
"I hope I didn't hurt her too badly — they are certainly 
strange creatures!" 



Act of Contrition 

A sonnet translation of Ignatius Loyola's 
"Acto de Contricion" 

The heav'n above which You have promised, God, 

Does not inspire the love I have for Thee ; 

Nor does that fearful Hell, my fate to be 

Should I trespass, upon my conscience trod. 

But You alone can bow me to the sod — 

You and Your murder on the fateful tree ; 

Your body, torn and bleeding, is to me 

A sign : for us You welcomed death and rod. 

And last, Your love for me would force return 

Though Heav'n never were ; and even if no Hell 

Existed, fear of You I'd have to learn ; 

I need no spur — unfed my fire would burn ; 

And though the hope I hope has heard its knell, 

My heart with love burns on ; it cannot spurn. 

— Edward Balthrop. 

—17— 



Propaganda 

• F. Taylor Peck 



T? VE was the first propagandist. When she talked the un- 
willing Adam into eating the forbidden fruit, she set 
in motion a movement that has come down to us with all 
the accumulated means, manners, and methods of the 
ages. Today men are so propaganda-conscious and so 
conscious of propaganda that one dares not lift a dis- 
senting voice, nay, even a critical voice, and remain free 
from the stigma of "Propagandist !" 

In the broadest and most inclusive sense propaganda is 
the deliberate attempt of a person or persons to influence 
or mold individual, national, or international opinion to 
conform with his own ends. In a democratic state propa- 
ganda has a definite social function. It is a democratic 
essential that voters reach deliberate and intelligent de- 
cisions on matters of public concern, and this is accom- 
plished only after lengthy deliberation, debate, and time. 
To this end all means of communication are utilized. Po- 
litical opponents air their respective views, experts com- 
ment on the situations, and newspapers carry the issues 
before the people. The results of this propaganda is gen- 
erally shown in the election reports. 

Nevertheless, most people are prone to think of any- 
thing the next-door neighbor tells them is propaganda as 
subversive and worthy of nothing less than immediate 
annihilation. It is this very disinterestedness that has 
made this nation the especially fertile field for propa- 
gandists that it is today. The difficulty will not be solved 
by the mere division of propaganda into good and evil. 
Many times the evidence is insufficient to warrant a de- 
cision one way or another, but it is possible to learn, in a 
small part at least, the nature of several types of propa- 
ganda that fill the air about us, thus assisting in the estab- 
lishment of a cautious attitude, if nothing else. 

The most common medium for propaganda is talk. 
Everybody talks. Everybody has the right to express his 
opinion, but it is not the talking that is paramount. Very 
few people are immensely impressed by plain facts. Rath- 
er it is the tendency to search for illusive, recondite 
threats, and obscure insinuations. Things are very often 
seen as the seeing would like to see them, and thus the 
purpose behind modern propaganda is to get the public 
unconsciously believing, then burst forth with the violent, 
repressive, and destructive type that means death to all 
opposition. 

—18— 



At opposite ends of the scale of war propaganda, the 
chief type of interest today and by far the most influen- 
tial are found the super-militaristic organs of the total- 
itarian states and the defeatist "peace-at-any-price" atti- 
tude of those Utopian, unrealistic persons. Not that peace 
is not most desirable nor even unattainable, but its in- 
trinsic weakness and indecision lend greater opportunities 
for aggression. When this attitude appears in the leaders 
of a nation, it may be a screen to hide the fact that these 
leaders have no real solutions to offer to problems. The 
thought that the country might be "sold-down-the-river" 
is not exactly a sedative for national nerves. For an ex- 
ample of the heated, emotional and demanding language 
of the super-militarist, just tune in Europe on your radio. 

Another type of propaganda that lends itself to the 
creation of international uncertainty and one that strikes 
very close to home, is the variety characterized by sud- 
den, complete, and illogical reverses in opinion. Our na- 
tional foreign policy, if one can hold it long enough in 
passing to name it, is not only most confusing to the peo- 
ple at home, but it is positively demoralizing in its effects 
upon European politics. European dictatorships prosper 
on the fact that our indecision leaves European democra- 
cies with hands tied. Isolationism is a most pleasing the- 
ory. Internationalism is a most disappointing and costly 
one. European propaganda would drag us in on one 
hand and keep us out on the other. The same is true of 
the propagandists at home. Consequently, we are always 
wondering just where we have been, and where we will 
end up next. 

Therefore, with these main and general types of propa- 
ganda before us, we may make some sort of guiding clas- 
sification system under which we catalogue the various 
opinions to which we are subjected. By no means should 
there be the general doubt regarding everything that is 
heard or read, but neither is it desirable that we continue 
to regard all that is read and heard as fact. It has been 
said before that it is one thing to desire deception, and 
another thing to desire something that will involve decep- 
tion. Hence, let the byword be, "Remember Eve!" 



—19- 



Again There Is Laughter 

• David Loveman 



IN the procession of years that had been his life 
Peter Semmes had grown hard and cynical. He 
had known suffering and death, bitterness and despair 
so often that his knowledge of rampant disappointments 
had formed a shell about his heart. He was not old in 
years, yet his age was beyond conception. He had lived 
before his time, and the screaming fall of a plane had 
sent him home from the war blind, and sick, too, with 
the realization of the hopelessness and futility of his 
future. 

He wrote poetry. It served as a mirror of his inner- 
being, reflecting in its polished meter and flowing smooth- 
ness heartfelt agony and despair. Each day, after dicta- 
ting to his secretary, he would sit for an hour or so in 
his garden, blind to the successive springs and summers 
and the falls and winters that blanketed the world about 
him. 

One day he sat alone and the wind bent the poplars 
and a bird flew across the evening sky. 

"Peter!" The voice came with the wind — soft and low. 
"Peter, I am here." 

"Mary! Is it you?" 

"Of course, my dear. Who else?" 

"But Mary, how long it's been. How long!" 

"Yes, Peter. It has been years since we talked together, 
since you held me that night and said 'I love you.' Do you 
remember, Peter?" 

"Don't!" He rose and his voice was hard and cold. 
"I can't stand it. I've made myself forget. I won't remem- 
ber." 

"You must, my dear, you must. Listen to me and re- 
member that night so long ago. The moon was on the 

sea and we stood alone — together ..." 

* * * 

It was their last night. Tomorrow, he would leave for 
France and the front. Only a few hours in which to live 
a lifetime! How swiftly they were gone! And yet, the 
parting was not so bad. They were young, and war was 
romantic, and life promised so much. At the ship, she 
kissed him goodbye and was lost in the crowd. There 
were letters and pictures to make the ocean that sepa- 
rated them as nothing. But one letter was not in her hand 
and he felt a fear steal into his heart that the guns and 
shells and gas had failed to arouse. She was gone. She 

—20— 



would not be at the dock to meet him when he returned. 
She was dead. Machine guns rattled and a lone star 
blinked through the darkness. 

Later he went up in his plane and the rush of air past 
his face was cool and sweet but they could not brush 
away the tears that filled his eyes. And through his tears, 
he could not see the planes of the enemy that swooped 
down upon him. A flash ! A stab of pain ! A whirling dark- 
ness! For him, the war was over. His eyes could see no 
more. 



"I remember, Mary. The years have come back again. 
And the memory is not hard. It was the effort to forget 
that has cost me my youth and my laughter." 

"You will laugh again now, Peter. We will laugh again, 
together." 

"Yes, Mary. Give me your hand. It is dark. I cannot 
see." 

He felt a hand in his that was cool and strong and 
comforting. He moved and his eyes were opened and he 
saw her before him, just as he had done on that night 
by the sea. 

They walked into the evening. 

And within the house, the secretary heard the sound of 
laughter, gay and free and filled with happiness, and 
wondered at the sound. 



They found Peter the next day, deep in the woods. 
The leaves had fallen to cover him where he lay and his 
eyes were open as if he saw. He was smiling. 



—21— 



Concerning Conversation 

• Stockman O'Rourke 

"... if I was to choose the people with whom I would 
spend my hours of conversation, they should certainly be such 
as laboured no further than to make themselves readily and 
clearly apprehended and would have patience and curiosity to 
understand me." — Steele. 

FEW people have really savored the joys of true 
conversation. This, obviously, is a statement that re- 
quires considerable proof. It may come as something of 
a shock to those who are accustomed to regarding all 
the talking they do with their friends and acquaintances 
as conversation. This, I submit, is not only a serious fal- 
lacy but a regrettable delusion — a delusion, by the way, 
which is all too common. 

Nothing is further from true conversation than the talk 
of certain windy individuals (I do not mean windy in 
the sense of something broad and sweeping like a trade 
wind but something narrow and gusty like a draft) 
who are interested only in what they have to say and re- 
gard the occasional responses of their companions as 
something to be merely tolerated as one of the necessary 
evils of social life. Such a one spends the time during 
which he is theoretically listening in preparing new verbal 
ammunition. When two such persons meet, the result is 
not a conversation but what may be called, for want of 
a better term, a double monologue. 

Included in the aforementioned class are those who 
consider conversation as a sort of secular confessional. 
Their talk is a complexus of long drawn out trials and 
petty tribulations. Malny long-suffering listeners have 
nominated them as the worst of those who have turned 
the pleasant art of conversation to their own morose ends. 
Away with them, say I; and let them be anathema. Their 
cries for mercy are drowned in the reverberating echoes 
of their own perpetual laments. 

Related to this first class of individuals is that pale and 
wishy-washy person known as the "good listener." I say 
he is related because it is he who gives aid and comfort 
to our windy friend, the monologist. The "good listener" 
considers that he has discharged his whole conversational 
duty if he has started his companion on the latter's fav- 
orite topic. Once this is done, all he need do is lean back 
in his chair and listen (or at least seem to listen). This is 
all well and good in its way and it has many advantages, 
not the least of which is the opportunity it provides of 
enjoying a good nap with a droning monotonal accom- 

—22— 



paniment. Of course it must be only a gentle doze for it 
is entirely possible (I shall not say probable) that the 
speaker will eventually exhaust even his favorite topic. 
Seriously, however, this is not conversation. The "good 
listener" encourages one of the worst of conversational 
vices. He is himself a parasite upon the conversational 
tree sapping its vitality, stunting its growth, and pre- 
venting it from blossoming forth. 

Having shown by examples what true conversation is 
not, I may now not unreasonably be expected to show 
what true conversation is. For a preliminary idea on 
this subject I refer the reader to the aforementioned 
quotation from Steele, a man of sound common sense. 
However, with all due respect to the good Sir Richard, I 
hope I may be permitted to enlarge upon this notion a 
bit. In so doing, I take it as a maxim that the underlying 
factor of true conversation is a meeting of minds. There- 
fore, we must not only express our own thoughts but 
we must give careful consideration to the thoughts of 
our companion. Further, the true conversationalist does 
not enter into a conversation with an unshakable deter- 
mination to present a fixed train of ideas. He adapts him- 
self to the drift and mood of the conversation. He con- 
siders his companion, not as a passive target for his 
conversational darts, but as a foil upon which to test his 
own weapon. Far from enjoying a mere personified af- 
firmative as a conversational partner, he seeks out those 
who have enough backbone to defend their own ideas 
and challenge his. This is important for in true conver- 
sation there must be repartee. We must strike the flint 
of our minds upon the steel of our friend's mind. But 
there must be moderation withal. Conversation is not 
warfare. 

Now out of these disjointed reflections there comes to 
me a thought of how the art of conversation has a bearing 
upon the serious affairs of this world. Are not many of 
the misunderstandings of this world due to the fact that 
we either do not listen to what our opponents have to 
say or else we read into his utterances the meaning most 
agreeable to ourselves? I believe so, and therefore I 
insist upon the importance of careful and sympathetic 
listening. Failing to weigh carefully and patiently the 
words of others, we are gravely unjust. We are guilty 
not only of intellectual laziness but of something more 
serious, intellectual dishonesty. The true conversational- 
ist is never guilty of this. He is both a good listener and 
a good talker with a dash of something else besides. He 
is a gentleman. 

—23— 



spring if til (fuarferhj 



Editor-in-chief 
G. STOCKMAN O'ROURKE, '39 
Managing Editor Business Manager 

JACK T. HALLADAY, '39 AUTRY D. GREER, '40 

Associate Editors 
Edward Balthrop, '40 
'41 Caldwell T. Delaney, '41 
Contributing Editors 
Frank B. Rauch, '41 
Thomas F. Sweeney, '39 
John L. Mechem, '41 Frank Kearley 

Circulation Managers 
Charles A. Isaac, '39 Redmond J. Reilly, '40 



John L. Bacon, '40 
Alfred O. Lambeau, 

Paul V. Byrne, '39 
N. C. La Fleur, '40 



F. Taylor Peck, '41 
David J. Loveman, '42 

Edward W. Leslie, '39 

John De Ornellas, '42 

42 



VIVA IL PAPA 

On March 2, the tolling of bells from 
550 churches in the Eternal City an- 
nounced to the world that a new Pope of 
the Catholic Church had been elected. On 
that day His Eminence Eugenio Cardinal 
Pacelli became the 262nd Pope and be- 
gan his reign under the chosen name of 
Pius XII. The wide coverage given this 
event throughout the world by means of 
radio, newspapers, and moving pictures 
attests to the interest which the world 
gives to it. The whole world, and espec- 
ially the Catholic portion, knows the wise 
guidance that they can expect from the 
seat of Saint Peter. 

The new Pope comes to his office after 
a career distinguished not only by long 
and brilliant diplomatic service but also 
by great priestly qualities. He is distin- 
guished for his scholarly attainments 
speaking half a dozen languages fluently. 
As papal Nuncio to Germany during the 
trying and perilous days following the 
World War he did great service, and the 
concordats that were signed mainly 
through his personal efforts did much to 
increase the prestige and influence of the 
Church in Germany. His service as Sec- 
retary of the Sacred Congregation of Ex- 
traordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs was as- 
siduous and highly successful. As Papal 
Secretary of State under Pope Pius XI, 
he did eminent work in carrying out 
the policies of the Supreme Pontiff. In 
spite of his arduous duties he found time 
for preaching and hearing confessions in 
the colleges and institutes in and around 
Rome. 

Pope Pius XII had a great devotion to 
both the person and policies of Pius XI, 
and he may be expected to continue along 



the same lines as the late Pope. His se- 
lection of Pius as a name is an indica- 
tion of this. The fight for a Christian 
peace based upon the principles of justice 
and charity will go on with unabated zeal. 
Projects which had their start under 
Pius XI will be carried to fulfillment un- 
der Pius XII. The enemies of Christ need 
expect no relaxing in the vigilance of 
their opponents. The friends of Christ 
need fear no lack of guidance. Another 
Pius is ready to lead them. 

POPE PIUS XI 

On February 10 there departed from 
this life a great and holy man — Pope 
Pius XI. For seventeen years, with all 
the strength and zeal of one endowed 
with an indomitable will and supported 
by the grace of God, he labored for his 
Church. Now he goes to his everlasting 
reward. 

Pius XI was a lover of justice, he had 
a keen intellect combined with a deep 
knowledge of human nature, and he had 
a fatherly affection for his flock. The 
annals of his life are one long record of 
service to his beloved Church. He was 
born in 1857 and spent the first sixty-one 
years of his life in obscurity as a parish 
priest and Vatican librarian. Then in 1918 
he entered upon a period which in four 
years brought him to the papacy. As- 
suming for his own the name which sig-- 
nifies "peace," he spent the evening of 
his life in carrying out the exacting and 
responsible duties of his office. His reign 
was truly a great one. 

The world had forgotten Christ and 
without Him nothing was possible. Pius 
made it his supreme task to restore 
Christ to the world and the world to 



-24- 



Christ. He established the Feast of Christ 
the King. He wrote his great encyclicals 
on Christian education, Christian mar- 
riage, and the Christian social order. 
Under him, the missions of the Church 
were extended more widely than ever. 
He gave new life to the movement toward 
spiritual retreats for laymen. All these 
things were not mere theories and doc- 
trines with the Pope. He took active steps 
to see that they became realities. His 
first desire was to make practicable the 
Christian ideals. 

Probably his greatest achievement was 
in the promotion of the doctrine and 
practice of Catholic Action. Through this 
he secured the participation of the laity 
in the apostolate of the Hierarchy. He 
was ever anxious for the laymen to take a 
greater part in the spiritual life of the 
Church. Pius was truly the shepherd of 
his flock, the father of his children. 

The world now mourns and will con- 
tinue to mourn for many a long day the 
passing of the late Pope. It is very 
proper that the world should mourn his 
death, but it would have been better if 
the world had listened more closely to 
the living voice of the Holy See. If it 
had, the peace of Christ would reign in 
the world, and the evils of these limes 
would not be so grievous. 

PEACE IN SPAIN 

News dispatches bring the happy news 
of an early end to the war in Spain. 
Matters have reached a state where the 
Leftists have only the alternatives of 
continuing their futile resistance or im- 
mediately surrendering. The bloodshed 
and destruction are now practically over 
and the war has been brought to a con- 
summation most devoutly to be wished. 

In 1936 the newly "elected" Red gov- 
ernment was failing miserably in the 
promotion of the eommon good. Spain 
was headed for the chaos of Marxism. 
Subversive doctrines dominated the gov- 
ernment and the Spanish people were 
denied their religious and political rights. 
At that moment Franco and his follow- 
ers rose against the frenzied hate and 
blood lust of the Reds. They proceeded to 
wage a just war against the atheistic 
Communism which threatened Spain. 

During the course of this war the 
forces of Franco failed to receive in 
many countries the support which up- 
holders of law and order and religion 
might expect to receive. In the United 
States propaganda for the Reds and 
against the Nationalists disguised the 
true motives of the conflict and distorted 



the news from the battlefields. This same 
propaganda was silent about the assas- 
sination of innocent priests, nuns, and 
laymen by the so-called Loyalists. Fic- 
tional accounts of atrocities said to have 
been committed by the Nationalists were 
foisted upon the American public while 
the outrages of mobs under the direc- 
tion of the Communist International 
went unreported. Only the Catholic press 
remained staunch against this flow of 
malicious propaganda. 

Now that the end of the war is at 
hand it is to be hoped that the world will 
come to realize the real issues back of 
the war in Spain. It is to be hoped, too, 
that it will give sympathetic cooperation 
in the rebuilding of Spain. Then there 
can come into being, as Franco says, "a 
fraternal Spain, an industrious and work- 
ing Spain, where parasites can find no 
lodging. A Spain without chains and tyr- 
annies: a nation without Marxism and 
Communism; a State for the people and 
not a people for the State." 

STATE STOCK LAW 

The legislative session now sitting at 
Montgomery conveniently shelved a state 
wide stock law that would have empow- 
ered the state highway commission to 
enclose all state roads not already fenced. 

The gentlemen from the open-range 
counties at Montgomery do not seem to 
realize that their action has injured the 
reputation of the State of Alabama. They 
do not seem to know that serious acci- 
dents have happened as the result of 
livestock wandering aimlessly along the 
highways. Vehicles have been wrecked 
and lives snuffed out all needlessly be- 
cause rural legislators fear their consti- 
tuents. It is convenient to plead the pov- 
erty of their constituents, even if the 
excuse were reasonable. But stock laws 
in the North and West, and even in the 
South, have not forced stockmen to the 
wall. Indeed the only real hardship 
worked on the stockman is a little incon- 
venience and the expenditure of a few 
paltry dollars spent on a few strands of 
barbed wire fastened with staples on 
fence posts that may be cut from local 
timber. 

The situation is anomalous. Not only 
are cattle, sheep, horses, mules, goats, 
hogs, and fowl allowed the right of way 
with impunity, but the motorist who al j 
ready has been taxed for the construc- 
tion and upkeep of the highways, is also 
made responsible for damages done to 
livestock. Is this reasonable and just? 



—25— 



Singing River 



Still waters run deep, 

They say, and yet 

How seldom do we know 

How deep; how rarely 

Do we probe beneath the surface 

And explore. 

Too oft still waters run unnoticed, 

And their depths 

Hide romance long unknown. 

Down by the Gulf the Pascagoula 

Runs unnoticed; 

And in its depths 

There is romance. 

For long ago when the land was free 

And the Indian ruled supreme 

It was the home 

Of a proud and honored people. 

Their tepees by the Gulf 

Knew only peace, and the Pascagoulas 

Were content. 

Then in the night 

With the stealth of a fox 

The fierce Biloxis camq 

And took them as they slept. 

The braves died fighting for their homes 

And all they loved; 

But as they passed 

They left behind them greater misery. 

Their wives and daughters, 

Left alone, became the slaves 

Of men who knew no honor. 

But as they marched before their captors 

They sang, and in their song 

They raised the war-chant of their tribe 

And swore in oath 

That they would die 

Before they lived as slaves. 



-26— 



Then as they came to the river 

And their chant was raised to a scream 

Each woman caught u,p a child 

And plunged, still singing, in 

To sink until her chant 

Was drowned with her and fell 

At last into the depths. 

Now when the surface is ruffled 

And the wind is low 

Sometimes you can hear 

The chant, like a ghost 

Wandering over the water 

And haunting the river Pascagoula ; 

Lingering to mark the spot 

Where still waters flow 

And time forgets the Singing River. 

Caldwell Delaney. 



—27— 



Bad History Makes Good Verse 

• Thomas F. Sweeney 



JUDGE the other of his sonnets as you will, Milton's "On 
the Late Massacre at Piedmont" stands for all time a 
literary monument. If the prime test of a poet is his 
ability to write a great sonnet, as Hilaire Belloc asserts, 
then Milton has with one mighty blast of his trumpet 
dispelled any doubt as to his poetic genius. From the first 
rising surge of "Avenge, O Lord !" to the breaking crest 
of "Early may fly the Babylonian woe" the sonnet sweeps 
on with a mighty roll of poetry. 

Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; 
Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old 
When all our fathers worshipt sticks and stones, 
Forget not: In Thy book record their groans 
Whe were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that roll'd 
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their groans 
The vale redoubled to the hills, and they 
To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow 
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 
The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow 
A hundredfold, who, having learnt Thy way, 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 

What a mighty roll of verse is this! No wonder that 
Wordsworth says of the sonnets of Milton that "in his 
hands the thing became a trumpet whence he blew soul 
animating strains." It would be difficult to find in any 
language a sonnet that vibrates as much power. The poem 
lives. We know immediately it is great poetry. 

However much we may admire this piece of verse, in 
all justice we cannot overlook its occasion without com- 
ment. The incident behind the sonnet is the massacre of 
the Vaudois, or Waldenses, by the Duke of Savoy because 
of their refusal to abide his command either to give up 
their religion and return to the Church, or leave the 
country. 

The massacre did take place. It was bloody. In the 
history of mankind it was a regrettable event. All this 
cannot be denied. Yet prejudiced critics have so harped 
upon the incident and have so stretched it out of propor- 
tion, calling it typical of that Anti-Christ, the pope, that 
an explanation is in order. 

It was commonly held at the time that the Vaudois, or 
Waldenses, were primitive Christians converted by Paul 
on his journey through the Alps. They were thought to 



have kept the primitive faith through the ages while the 
Church of fhe Popes grew worldly and "worshipt sticks 
and stones." 

The legend is entirely unsubstantiated. Peter Waldes, 
in the twelfth century, after reading the New Testament, 
decided to heed Christ's command to be perfect. He sold 
all his goods and donated the proceeds to his relatives. 
His action drew about him followers, mostly poor men, 
who with him began to practice apostolic poverty. All 
this was laudatory. But Waldes and his disciples began 
almost immediately to preach, and having had no previous 
theological training, naturally infused error into their 
teachings. It was inevitable that the Church excommuni- 
cate them. 

The Waldenses lapsed more and more into error, and 
embraced many dogmas of Manicheism. They became in 
reality the last vestige of the great heresy that rocked the 
Middle Ages, and from which the Christian world was 
just recuperating. 

Infected with an old sore the Waldenses were hated 
and suppressed by their Catholic neighbors who desired 
no more of this dreaded heresy. Besides, much friction 
already existed between the Waldensian handful in the 
Alpine uplands and the Catholics further downstream. 

In the seventeenth century the ruling lord, tardily real- 
izing the disorder in his province, finally took action. 
Merging politics with religion, a proceeding all too com- 
mon in his time, he issued an order to the Waldenses to 
abjure their heresy and return to Catholicism or else 
leave the country. He enforced his decree by dispatching 
troops to the Alps where they massacred and spread ter- 
ror among the Waldenses. 

Impartial critics are inclined to view the Duke of Sa- 
voy's action as not entirely unjustified or altogether too 
severe. It was a time when the Thirty Years' War, so long 
and bitterly fought, was just sputtering out. The incident 
in the Alps was seized upon by both sides of the con- 
troversy, Protestants as well as Catholics, as a point of 
honor. The massacre was appropriate to the period, and 
from the Duke's viewpoint, a necessary one. 

An illustration focuses the point clearly. Suppose Com- 
munism had been ravishing this nation for centuries, 
causing untold misery and bloodshed, and only lately had 
been stamped out. Since we were only now recovering 
from the effects of Communism who would blame the 
nation's ruler when, hearing of a fresh disturbance by a 
smouldering ember, he order it extinguished? 

—29— 



When news of the massacre reached London, the Puri- 
tan populace was shocked. Pamphlets flooded the city, 
describing the massacre in minute details; illustrations 
were drawn depicting the bloody scene. Cromwell ordered 
a general fast to collect money for the Vaudois. Milton, 
Latin secretary of the Cromwellian regime, wrote an of- 
ficial protest to the Duke of Savoy. The massacre was 
the talk of the city. 

The official protest written by Milton is surprisingly 
mild compared with his sonnet on the subject. The Latin 
protest was the State's objection, the sonnet was his own. 
His personal anger seems to have been increased by the 
general furore. He was much affected by the pamphlets 
and illustrations circulated in London as the references 
in the sonnet indicate. It was in this mood that he com- 
posed one of the most powerful bits of poetry ever writ- 
ten. 

Yet there is nothing in the thought, or imagery, or 
wording that strikes us so deeply as the humble material 
Milton used, and that in a plain, outspoken way. He used 
but one thought based on a frayed quotation from Ter- 
tullian, "Plures efficimur, quoties metimur a vobis; semen 
est sanguis Christianorum." 1 

What is the appeal of this sonnet? It lacks the felici- 
tous expression of "Lycidas" or "Comus," nor has it the 
massive goldwork of the "variously drawn out verse" of 
"Paradise Lost." A few hazy images and a succession of 
hackneyed biblical phrases pass in review, but these are 
mediocre and defects which the poem swallows up in 
its greatness. 

"The splendor of this piece of verse," writes Hilaire 
Belloc, "lies in its sound." This is the prime reason. "It 
is the rolling of an organ, sustained, modulated, appeal- 
ing, overawing from the first line to the last." The swel- 
ling of omega upon omega are the "soul animating 
strains" that Wordsworth speaks of. The succession of 
such words as "moans," groans," "old," "bones," and 
"soul," "woe," and the images these words conjure up 
are the things that "give the notes to glory." 2 

Yet Belloc does not give the poem its just due in making 
sound its only attraction. Sound alone, no matter how ex- 
cellent it is, must be supported by something else. The 
poem must have a substance, something that sustains 
the sound. "On the Late Massacre at Piedmont" really 
has this needed substance. It has something more than 

1. The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church. 

2. H. Belloc, Selected Essays, Philadelphia: Lippincott & Co., 1936, 

p. 147. 



mere sound to commend it. Into this sonnet Milton 
breathed an angry breath, and the lines have recaptured 
the vibrant emotion. 

Although both the idea behind the poem and the bib- 
lical phrases are stale, they are blended into a back- 
ground for the emotion and lend it the tone of a page 
from the Old Testament. We are unconsciously reminded 
of the Hebrew summoning the Lord to take "an eye for 
an eye, a tooth for a tooth." The stern Puritan with an 
angry voice calls upon the God of Justice to avenge the 
bloody massacre of His sheep. Without knowing why, we 
are led to sympathize with his righteous wrath against 
the "Babylonian woe." Though based on distorted facts, 
bad history does make good verse. 

"On the Late Massacre at Piedmont" does attract by 
the vibrant passion of anger expressed restrainedly with 
a biblical sonorousness. With Mark Pattison we say that 

From this sonnet we may learn that the poetry of a poem 
is lodged elsewhere than in its matter, or its imagery, or in 
its words. Our heart is here taken by storm, but not by any 
of these things. The poet has breathed on us, and we have 
received his inspiration. In this sonnet is realized Words- 
worth's definition of poetry: "The spontaneous overflow of 
powerful feeling."3 

3. M. Pattison, Sonnets of Milton, New York: D. Appleton & Com- 
pany, 1896, p. 59. 



-31— 



She Knew Him Best 



• Louis J. Maloof 

IT would seem rather superfluous for anyone to try- 
to add anything more to the thousands — one could 
even say millions — of tributes that have already been 
spoken and written to the happy memory of the late 
Holy Father. Truly Pope Pius XI was a great man — so 
great, in fact, so universally loved and venerated, that 
never before in civilization's history had the globe draped 
her axis, from pole to pole, with the crepe of sorrow, and 
shed tears of regret as she did when she knelt at the bier 
of that tired, weary, little old man of Vatican City. 

The world knew and loved Pope Pius from the time 
His Holiness first donned the tiara of the Holy Roman 
Church and blessed humanity with the Apostolic Bene- 
diction. But there is one who knew him best. There is 
one who loved him most. You might have seen her — that 
is, of course, had you ever been in Rome when the Pontiff 
was celebrating Mass in Saint Peter's Basilica, or when 
His Holiness had chosen to add to the solemnity of some 
great occasion with his presence. 

But perhaps in the concourse you probably would not 
have paid any particular attention to her, for she is not 
very unlike the many other little Italian women, heads 
draped with silk and lace mantillas, that one meets in 
and out of the various holy shrines. Yet, if it just hap- 
pened that you were near by when this little old woman 
entered the doors of the basilica, you would notice that 
the church attendants always gave her a knowing nod, 
and you would see the native women's faces brighten as 
she passed them. You would somehow feel that they were 
going to curtsy to her as though she were a queen. 

There is much to know about this little old woman. She 
moved to Rome soon after Damien Achille Cardinal Rat- 
ti, Archbishop of Milan, was elevated to the Papacy on 
February 6, 1922. She is of sturdy, Lombardy peasant 
stock; yet there is something about her that makes one 
think of nobility. The one interest that she had on earth 
was Pope Pius. She had known the Pontiff all his life : as a 
boy in Desio, in northern Italy; as a student at Saint 
Peter the Martyr and the Lombard seminary at Rome. 
She was present on that happy day, December 20, 1879, 
when, unknowingly to that joyful congregation, a future 
occupant of the Chair of Saint Peter was ordained to 
the Holy Priesthood. When later Father Ratti became 

—32— 



head of the Ambrosian, and subsequently the Vatican, 
libraries, she visited him frequently. 

This little woman reached, as she then believed, the 
acme of her joys when, after serving nobly as Apostolic 
Nuncio to Poland since October 28, 1918, her prelate was 
called to Rome and on June 13, 1921, created Cardinal 
and Archbishop of Milan. Little did she know then that 
in less than nine months the one occupying the warmest 
spot in her heart would be elected Pope, and on Febru- 
ary 12, 1922, be crowned as the 261st successor to Saint 
Peter and Vicar of Jesus Christ. The deafening cries that 
arose from the multitude on that memorable occasion, 
eternally engraved on the flesh of her heart and un- 
stifled by time and space, are still echoing in her ears: 
"Viva il Papa! Viva il Santo Padre!" 

It now seemed to this little woman that she lived in 
another world. Nothing that the Pope said or did ever 
escaped her attention. When he was sad, she was sad; 
when he wept, her heart was broken ; when he seemed 
tired and weary in his constant battle against evil, she 
cried herself to sleep as she fingered her rosary beads for 
him. But it is said, too, she would never be so happy as 
when she would see the Pope surrounded by the great 
and small, all looking to him for guidance, for spiritual 
leadership. 

She often came to chat with the Pope. She was always 
at his side when he needed her. She called him "Your 
Holiness." No one ever refused her admittance. The Vat- 
ican guards all knew her. They would step aside to let 
her pass even at times when high prelates would not be 
admitted. Often, too, the guards would seem to salute 
her officially. 

It was now Friday, February 10, 1939. Rome, the eter- 
nal city, was yet at rest. The winter sun was slowly be- 
ginning to creep from beyond the hills, seemingly in re- 
sponse to the chimes of the Angelus. As she recited her 
prayers, this little old woman must have thought there 
was something peaceful about the atmosphere — that cer- 
tain peacefulness that somehow seemed to tell of rest 
after a long and weary night. 

Hastily, someone knocked at the door. "Mi perdoni! 
You are wanted at the Vatican at once, Signorina!" Sud- 
denly, the great bells of Saint Peter's began to toll. 

The scene now changes to the Papal Palace. Still stand- 
ing, some kneeling, around the simple bed of the dead 
Pope were those who but an hour before had received the 
Holy Father's last blessing. Present were the Cardinal 

—33— 



Camerlengo, Monsignors Diego Venini and Carlo Confa- 
lonieri, papal secretaries; and several others^, among 
whom were Vatican physicians, two faithful monks who 
had nursed the Pope during his illness, and two Swiss 
guards, one on each side of the Pontiff's bed. 

Quietly the door of the dimly lighted death chamber 
opened. Silently this little old woman entered. She paused 
but did not survey the room as was customary. Quickly 
she focused her attention on one person — but he was 
dead. She stepped forward. One of the Pope's secretaries 
approached to sustain her steps. She reached the bedside. 
Emotion overtook her. No one tried to restrain her. Tears 
streaming down her cheeks, she fell to her knees, sob- 
bing, praying, and devoutly kissing now his hands, now 
his feet. "She was," the newspapers tell us, "the most 
grief stricken of all who knew him." 

Slowly, a bit hesitantly, a Cardinal approached the 
little woman, already his eyes heavy from weeping. Gent- 
ly, he tapped her on the shoulder. 

"Donna!" he called softly. 

Respectfully, though not turning her head away from 
the dead Pontiff, still sobbing, she nodded assent. 

The Cardinal leaned over to assist her to rise ; but as 
he did so, once more she kissed the dead Pontiff's hands 
and feet. As His Eminence gently lifted her to her feet 
and led her from the room, she was heard to whisper be- 
tween sobs: "Adio, Damiano Achille, mio fratello!" 

She was Donna Camilla Ratti. The Pope was her bro- 
ther. 



—34— 



Second Dream 



• Jack T. Halladay 

FLORENCE! Florence Lane!" The young man's 
voice was filled with surprise as he rushed toward 
the girl standing at the toy counter. She turned towards 
him, stood for a moment with a blank look, then sudden- 
ly extended her hands as her eyes lighted up : 

"John! Johnny Roger!" 

They both fumbled for each other's hands, somewhat 
hampered by a huge Teddy Bear she had bought, the 
hat in his hand, the pleased confusion of sudden reunion 
after a long separation. 

Roger stumbled for words while Miss Lane spoke rapid- 
ly: "I recognized you by your voice, but it's changed 
from treble since I last saw you ! You've grown so tall — 
and your hair's darker. Gee, it's good to see you!" 

"It's good to see you, Florence," Roger answered, and 
then added: "I'd recognize you anywhere, even though 
you're a grown up lady now. You walk the same, your 
nose has its same tilt — you're nearly the same now as 
when you were eleven. You're 19 now, aren't you?" 

"Yes, it's been that long." Miss Lane looked at him 
wonderingly. "We seem to remember each other well 
not to have seen each other for eight years. And we only 
knew each other as kids." 

"Yes, but what kids!" laughed Roger. "Remember how 
we parted?" 

A sudden coloring crossed her face, as if she were 
both loathe and pleased to have the subject mentioned. 
Miss Lane was suddenly aware of the fact that a hand- 
some, brown-headed young man stood before her instead 
of the tow-headed childhood playmate. 

"Come on, Flo, let's go to a restaurant and recall old 
times. This calls for some kind of a celebration. Got 
time?" 

She replaced a toy she had nervously picked up, smiled 
into his face and took his arm. A few minutes later they 
were together in a booth, letting food get cold as they 
recalled with warmth the days of their childhood. 

Roger frankly remarked, "I had the prettiest girl of 
any boy in the gang." For the first time in years Miss 
Lane felt coy and silly. The feeling crept into words : 

"We were silly, weren't we?" 

"Oh, I was desparately in love with you," Roger said. 
"You know, you were the only childhood sweetheart I 

—35— 



ever had. At twelve I thought I would be grown at six- 
teen, and of course 1 was going to marry you on my six- 
teenth birthday." 

Miss Lane burst out with uproarious laughter, and all 
the restraint of eight years separation slipped away. The 
stranger before her became an ardent, brown-eyed boy. 
"Marry me at sixteen?" she mocked. "You weren't par- 
ticularly averse to marriage at twelve!" 

It was Roger's time to flush. "I was awfully serious at 
the time, wasn't I? Your family was moving away and I 
couldn't bear to see you go. It was New Year's Eve ..." 

"... and we were going to be married at midnight!" 

"... I had never stayed awake until midnight before!" 

"... and I had never heard the New Year's bells!" 

Their eyes were shining and both laughed loudly. The 
rest of the cafe was forgotten. "It was a swell romance, 
wasn't it?" John said. 

"So sweet and silly. We were so serious. We waited on 
the living room couch, and talked of the future, and 
watched the hands of the clock." 

"From nine until nine-thirty was the longest half hour 
I ever spent," said the young man. "The prospect of mar- 
riage and the New Year weren't enough to keep me 
awake." 

"No, they weren't," Florence smiled sweetly. "Mother 
waked us up at one. "No marriage, no New Year's bells, 
no wedding bells. I thought it had been a dream." 

"It did seem like a dream. I was hardly awake — my 
mother was telephoning franticly about me, and your 
mother was scolding you for staying up so late when the 
family was moving the next day." Roger laughed rue- 
fully, as if he still felt his childhood tragedy. "Speaking 
of dreams, that was the worst part of it. Remember what 
you said when we were saying good-bye the next morn- 
ing?" 

"That was mean of me, Johnny. I was all excited about 
going to another city, a big city, and I suddenly felt so 
grown up." 

"You said, 'Forget what we dreamed last night.' " The 
faintest trace of a rueful boyish smile crossed his ruddy, 
shaven face. "You were on the furniture truck — smiling 
as you rode out of town." 

There was a pause. "What are you doing tomorrow?" 
Roger asked. 

Miss Lane smiled again. "Shopping. Only three days 
to Christmas, you know." 

"Mind if I help you?" 

"I suppose my ex-fiance deserves that much attention." 

—36— 



"Even jilted people have some rights," Roger replied. 

Christmas arrived in a swirl of snowflakes, of red and 
green bundles. 

Three days of shopping, tying packages and decorating 
the Lane Christmas tree fled by as only the days before 
Christmas can. So busy were Roger and Miss Lane that 
eight years were scarcely discussed because of the greater 
importance of toys and presents. 

Christmas came and went, with the sweethearts of 
childhood constantly together. Christmas Week presented 
a gay round of events — a ball the day after Christmas, a 
hockey game, a skating party, luncheon together, another 
trip to an ice resort, another Christmas Week dance. 

It was at this last dance, one of the last of the old 
year, that found Johnny and Flo talking more and more 
about each other— about his law studies, about her pos- 
sibilities of having a singing career, about the future and 
the past. 

"Johnny, this has been the happiest Christmas of my 
life," Florence said. "We've done so many things to- 
gether, had so much fun." 

"It's been the pleasantest Christmas vacation I ever 
had. It's like the week we spent at Uncle John's with 
swimming and watermelons every day." 

"Oh, it's even more fun. We couldn't have swum then 
as much as we have skated and danced this week." 

"I'll hate to go back to law school," Roger said. "It's 
like a second separation." 

"Oh, we'll see each other often," Florence said but 
watched his face earnestly. 

"I don't know," he replied glumly. "Me in college and 
you expecting that radio job. It'll take us to different 
cities ..." 

"iLet's wind up the vacation in grand style, then, John- 
ny. Let's go to the New Year's Eve dance over in Parker." 

The pleasant prospect ejrased the seriousness from 
Roger's face. 

Florence continued: "Besides, I don't have to accept 
that radio job, even if I get it. A career would be nice, 
but . . . " 

Roger cupped Miss Lane's face in his hands: "That 
New Year's dance will be swell." 

The dance, as gay as any welcoming the New Year, 
was up to their expectations. Florence was radiant in 
white satin and John looked ridiculous in his conical hat 
which made him look seven feet tall. 

"It's New Year's Eve, Florence," Roger whispered. 

"It's our anniversary, John," she answered. 

—37— 



They whirled across the floor in silence. 

"Are you dead set on being a radio star, Flo?" 

"I'd like to, but I should have gotten an answer from 
my audition by now." 

"You know I graduate in June, Flo." 

"Yes, John." 

John faltered in his dancing. Suddenly the orchestra 
started to play an old tune, which had been revived for 
the swing age. 

"That tune, Flo— how old is it?" 

"About eight years." 

"Everything is conspiring against us, Florence." 

Miss Lane began to laugh. "I'm a willing victim, John- 
ny." 

Mr. Roger took several amazing steps across the floor, 
lifting her bodily. Then he stopped dead still : 

"It would be a perfect ending, wouldn't it?" 

"Perfect, Johnny." 

It was a proposal and an acceptance, felt hy both, but 
scarcely put into words. 

They finished the dance with sailing hearts. 

"Grab your things, honey. It's an hour to midnight!" 

"Think we'll make it?" Florence asked. 

"If we drive across the state line to the 'Marryin' Jus- 
tice.' It's a 20-minute drive." 

"I'll even consent to being married by the 'Marryin' 
Justice' just to be married on this night," Florence 
laughed, her eyes glistening. 

"You're in wedding white now," Johnny said. "A 
Church wedding couldn't have a prettier bride." 

"Let's drop by my house, get a few things, and then 
we can drive right on to Laneau for a honeymoon. It's 
five days before you go back to college." 

For assent John grabbed her arm and they dashed for 
the car. Ten minutes later the auto was purring towards 
the state line. 

"I only got a toothbrush and nightgown," Florence 
said, half serious and half giggling. "I wrote a note for 
mother. From what she has said these last few days, I 
think she was expecting this." 

"Think she'll like her new son-in-law?" 

"Of course she will. Boy and man, you have had ac- 
cess to her cookie jar! She left me a note also, but I 
didn't take time to read it." 

"Read it in the morning. With this one arm driving and 
a justice of the peace to wake up, we've got plenty to 
do!" 

"We'll be hearing the midnight bells soon — our bells. 

—38— 



They'll always mean more to us than just New Year's 
bells." 

Her gay laughter was stopped short by a loud report 
and the car began to bump along the road. They looked 
at each other with sinking feelings. 

"Never mind, darling. I'll have it fixed by midnight," 
John said. He got out of the car and then let out a loud 
groan : "The tire is ripped wide open." 

"Put on your spare, John." 

"A college jalopy never has a spare, Flo," he replied 
glumly. He climbed back into the car. "No spare, no 
traffic to flag — honey, it looks like our midnight marriage 
is stymied." 

"Darling, eight years ago we didn't worry about a 
parson. Our imagination was enough then. Let's pretend 
we are being married when the bells ring out." 

"And promptly go to sleep," said John bitterly. 

They sank back into silence. In the distance bells were 
dimly heard — joyful bells which had an air of sadness 
as they were heard from afar. 

"Relax until morning, Johnny. It won't be the first 
time we slept through the time of our wedding vows." 

Their talk grew quieter. Somehow the flat had taken 
the wind out of their sails. They did not know when they 
ceased to talk about the morrow, but they were awakened 
with the sun in their faces, and looked at each other in 
surprise. 

They sat for a while in silence, except for a sweet 
good morning. John's tie was awry ; there was a tear in 
Florence's white satin dress. It seemed that at any mo- 
ment Florence's mother would shake them awake and 
tell them they had slept into the New Year on the fam- 
ily's living room couch. 

Florence's upswept coiffure was astray like her braided 
hair on that morning eight years ago. The sun showed 
boyish freckles on John's face. 

I hear a horn, darling. Maybe I can flag a ride for us." 

He clambered out of the car and waved vigorously. A 
load of furniture was driven resolutely by. Johnny 
watched it disappear down the road. 

When he returned to the car Florence was reading a 
note. She handed it to him. It was from her mother: 

"Florence, the radio station called and you have landed 
the job. You start your singing January 4." 

John searched her face. Finally he spoke: 
"Moving again, huh?" 

"Yes, honey, I think you had better forget the second 
dream." 

—39— 



Press Gleanings 



Intrigue, sabotage and rumors of war litter news stor- 
ies, columns and editorials, so it is rather refreshing to 
pore over items that do not disturb peace of body and 
mind . . . An Arabian king, owner of 250 wives, has a 
200-room palace equipped with bath and electrical ap- 
pliances minus the running water and electricity . . . 
Four truckloads of men without a country deserted Red 
Spain's international brigade to seek service in the 
French Foreign Legion with a view to a change of climate 
and lodging . . . English convicts at Dartmoor study for- 
eign languages to carry on (perhaps) correspondence 
with lifers abroad ... A man condemned to be guillotined 
gained a temporary stay when Paris' official executioner 
succumbed to old age . . . An emergency operation per- 
formed on an Indian prince by a London surgeon flown 
to Bombay for the occasion cost His Excellency £ 50,000 
. . . Moscow decrees death to all its vagabonds . . . Well, 
that's one way of disposing of unfortunate bums . . . Cata- 
lonian officers fleeing Spain with pockets and suitcases 
crammed with purloined jewelry and gold were arrested 
as they crossed the French frontier ... A 250-pound giant 
has become a thorn in the side to the Italian army of 
occupation in Ethiopia. The dark leader is the commander 
of one of Ethiopia's strongest rebel units. 

The cheapest thief in St. Louis trice passed plugged 
quarters on a blind newsboy in one day ... A Mobile 
Negro, stabbed eighteen times, managed to stop his 
assailant by a well placed leg bullet ... In Los Angeles a 
police marksman's warning bullet went through the ears 
of two automobile-propelled suspects . . . The residents 
of a Catskills' hamlet faced possible eviction as their town 
was put on the block. 

Crime prevailed in several instances . . . Santa Monica 
(Calif.) jaywalkers have so baffled police that the guard- 
ians of the law have abandoned their anti- jay walking 
campaign ... It costs 35 cents to arrest a man in St. 
Louis, but $633 will not convict him ... A Cleveland 
burglary specialist steals nothing but shoes . . . Officers 
of the law were taken to task when two Oklohoma high- 
way patrolmen discovered they were guilty of the mis- 
demeanor they stopped a motorist for — only one head- 
light was working . . . Mobile is afflicted by an epidemic 
of purse snatching . . .But crime doesn't always pay . . . 
A New Jersey police captain arrested his son for part in 

—40— 



a hold-up . . . G-men are now employed to ferret out 
cattle rustlers and horse thieves . . . The victims of an 
attempted hold-up in Mobile frustrated the stick-up 
artists by slamming a door in their faces . . . Trapped by 
his pants caught in a door an Omaha burglar ripped off 
the offending members and fled into the sub-zero night 
... A Mobile burglar caught in the act of taking a bath 
leaped out of a window to safety. 

Publicity is still given marital tangles ... A California 
labor leader, gaoled twenty-two years, decided to dis- 
pense with a faithful wife as soon as he was freed . . . 
A New York woman, kept waiting two hours on a street 
corner, slashed her admirer with a razor when he finally 
appeared . . . An Alabama matron filed suit for divorce 
on the grounds that her husband kept a vicious rattler 
as a pet . . . Another woman won a divorce when she 
testified her erstwhile mate accused her of entertaining 
when one of the strings he tied around their porch was 
broken . . . Montana, greedy for a share of divorce money, 
passed a bill to grant divorce after thirty-days' residence 
. . . Because thrill seekers packed his court to hear the 
woes of domestic tangles a Cleveland judge put up a 
"standing room only" sign after removing spectators' 
chairs. 

Experiments occasionally have drawbacks ... A young 
Indianapolis woman developed a red nose when she trans- 
ferred vaccine by scratching a vaccinated arm to an 
abrased nose by the same process ... Laboratory rats 
at the University of North Carolina got drunk after 
breathing in alcoholic fumes . . ., On the other hand Yale 
biologists report that women can stand hot and cold tem- 
peratures much better than men. 

When Tommy plays with your heirlooms and trinkets 
something is bound to happen ... In Evanston (111.) a 
small boy started a plumbers' probe of the water system 
to discover just where the youngster dropped a $4,000 
wrist watch . . . Children broke into the headlines in 
more than one way ... In Vermont's state capitol a chil- 
dren's lobby awed state legislators into voting down a bill 
that would demand licenses for bicycles and play-vehicles 
. . . Fearing to go to school with his lessons unprepared a 
Maryland schoolboy committed suicide ... In Arkansas a 
farm boy murdered his grandmother because she crit- 
icized his family ... In Pennsylvania another youngster 
hopped a freight for Florida and ended up in an airtight 
box car at Peabody (Mass.). 

Oddities even affect the world of sports . . . While 
Spring Hill was losing a close decision to the Fairhope 

—41— 



Legionaires two Mobile girls' team engaged in an 84 to 1 
game ... A mouse brqke up another girls' basketball 
game in North Carolina . . . Two Missouri high schools 
played a basketball game in a snowstorm ... In a small 
Ohio college two co-eds made the varsity fencing team. 

Death comes to every man in some way or other . . . 
A Kansas City man, having lost his taste buds, killed him- 
self because he could no longer enjoy his food . . . Two 
Coloradans, trying to thaw out dynamite, were killed 
when it exploded ... A Texan, forgetting he had rubbed 
his rheumatic body with kerosene, expired as he lit his 
pipe. 

Odds and ends ... A strong wind stopped Milwaukee's 
City Hall clock . . . San Quentin convicts went on strike 
when the prison's menu didn't satisfy them . . . Maryland 
matrons object to jury duty on the grounds that their 
husbands will protest if they are locked in a room with 
male jurors . . . Wandering away from Jersey City's stock- 
yards a peace-loving bull entered a boiler factory where 
he went berserk until hogtied by a Jersey cop . . . The 
well dressed woman requires twenty pairs of hosiery a 
year ... A mental lapse cost an Arkansas inkeeper sev- 
eral five dollar bills. He had stored them in a shotgun bar- 
rel and blew them to smithereens as he fired at a stray 
dog . . . New Orleans' new Charity Hospital unaccount- 
ably sank nine inches since its construction . . . WPA 
artists will decorate New York's subways with murals 
and sculptures, provided their modernistic art does not 
include pink elephants . . . Alabama will change its State 
Seal because it was designed by a Yankee major in 1868 
... A rattlesnake, submerged eighteen hours in alcohol, 
awakened and bit his Oklahoma "preserveress." . . . One 
South Carolina farmer discovered that he couldn't grow 
a field of tobacco sown with mustard seed ... A shotgun- 
toting policeman protects from rattlers and alligators a 
Baton Rouge golf club proprietor as he seeks errant balls 
in the palmettos. 



—42— 



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108 Dauphin Street 



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Spring Hill Quarterly 



VOLUME I SPRING-SUMMER, 1939 NUMBERS 3-4 



Contents 



DREGS (free verse) Caldwell Delaney 4 

NEVER TRUST A BLONDE (short story) Stockman O'Rourke 5 

AMERICAN DOMESTIC ARCHITECTURE EAST 

OF THE MISSISSIPPI (essay) F. Taylor Peck 8 

THEISM: A BASIS OF MORAL 

CIVILIZATION (essay) Stockman O'Rourke 13 

END OF YESTERDAY (short story) David Loveman 19 

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS (essay) John L. Mechem 38 

MEDIAEVAL INSTITUTIONS (essay) Frank W. Julsen 47 

EDITORIALS 52 

ANTE-BELLUM NATCHEZ: ITS ARCHITECTURE 

(essay) John B. Goetz 56 

IS O'NEILL ANTI-RELIGIOUS? (essay) Jack Halladay 62 

A LAY . . . (short story) F. Taylor Peck 65 

CIECRO: HIS PERSONALITY (essay) Alfred O. Lambeau 67 

THE ARCHITECTURE OF MOBILE (essay) Caldwell Delaney 74 

GENTLEMEN, MY CARD! (short story) Edward Balthrop 80 

CHURCH AND STATE: THE KULTURKAMPF 

(essay) Fred Schell 84 

WIDENING VISTAS (satire) 95 

PRESS GLEANINGS 99 



THE SPRING HILL QUARTERLY is published in December, February, April, and June 
by the students of Spring Hill College. Subscription: one dollar the year, thirty cents 
the copy. Address all communications and manuscripts to THE SPRING HILL QUAR- 
TERLY, Spring Hill College, 'Spring Hill, Alabama. Entered as second class matter 
under a temporary permit, December 22, 1938, at the Post Office at Spring Hill, Alabama. 



Dregs 



Being some vernacular observations in alleged free verse 



Decision: 

The telephone 

Is a queer thing; 

It makes people who have been friends all their lives 

Speak like total strangers. 

Exasperation : 

One never knows 

How many things there are 

Floating around the house 

Looking for some place to light 

Until he sets up 

A card table 

For some overnight work. 

Pity: 

There is no other pain so poignant 

As that 

Which is felt by the owner 

Of a new Easter hat 

When she arrives late 

And is forced to sit 

In the gallery. 

Apostate thrust: 
Young men 
So gaily debonnaire 
Always succeed 
In getting in my hair. 

Last straw: 

(Also apostate, but beyond suppression) 

To A Portrait In Oils 
Anemic lady so patrician 
All lavender and lace 
A little workout in the kitchen 
Would add some color to your face. 



• Caldwell Delaney 



—4— 



Never Trust a Blonde 



% Stockman O'Rourke 

MAYBE you've seen Chez Antoine. That's a pretty 
ritzy name for a nice little eating joint just off Canal 
Street in New Orleans. I always eat breakfast there my- 
self on the way down to the track. 

I am in there one morning not long ago dawdling over 
a cup of coffee and gassing with Antoine about the chan- 
ces of Show Girl romping home in the first race. Since 
this race is not being run until 10 and it is only 8:30 
now, I have plenty of time to waste. 

I am telling Antoine, who has a few C's to put on the 
ponies, that it is time for the filly to blow one after four 
straight firsts when a late customer comes in, and he has 
to leave. I am just putting my nose back into a tip sheet 
I am reading (which personally, being a bookie, myself, I 
don't put much stock in) when the said customer parks 
himself at my table. Looking up, who should I see but 
my old pal, Fred Bender. 

Now, Fred and I have been buddies from 'way, 'way 
back seeing as how we grew up in the same neighborhood 
and are now in the same business — well, nearly the same. 
He plays the stock market and I play the ponies. We 
haven't seen each other for several months, so I order 
another cup of Java, and we have a nice talk about horses, 
dames, and the stock market. 

Fred tells me about a killing he is going to make in 
Amalgamated Gas Pipe, and I tell him about the new 
way I have of doping out the races so that the ponies will 
run the way I pick 'em. But I can see that he isn't listen- 
ing, so I figure he has something else on his mind. 

Suddenly he says, "Say, Joe, how're you getting along 
with the dames these days?" Well, I've been knowing 
Fred long enough to know that he isn't asking me this 
because he really wants to know, so I answer : 

"Oh, so-so. How 'bout you? Have you met your soul 
mate, yet." Right then I can see that something's up. That 
dreamy look that comes into his eyes isn't put there by 
the sight of Antoine's special breakfast of hash and fried 
eggs. 

"Listen, Joe," he breathes, "I've met the most wonder- 
ful girl. She's a blonde and ..." 

"Wait a minute," I interrupt, "Don't tell me you're get- 
ting serious over some girl?" Of course, I know the ans- 
wer. 

"I was never more serious, Joe. We're going to be mar- 
ried." 

—5— 



"M-married ! You're not going to be a sucker and let 
some girl make you do inside loops around her little 
finger, are you?" 

"Aw, now, this girl is different. If you think . . . " 

"Sure, sure, she's different. She's sweet and simple and 
unkissed. Yeah, I know, and a dray horse is going to win 
the Kentucky Derby." You may be surprised that I talk 
to my pal like this, but I know women and want to do 
him a favor. So I say, "Now, listen, Fred, don't you put 
any trust in a dame — especially a blonde. Let me tell you 
a pretty little story. Joey meets blonde. Blonde falls for 
Joe. Joe falls for blonde. Love in bloom. Joe loses dough. 
Blonde loses interest. Goodbye, Joe. That's the way it 
happens, Fred. That girl swore she'd love me forever and 
a day. But when I dropped my ten G's at the track, she 
faded like a nag with a lame ankle. Don't be a sap, Fred. 
All any dame wants is your dough. That's the way the 
game is, and you can't beat it." Naturally, I feel like a 
heel telling Fred this, but I am only trying to save him a 
lot of grief. Imagine my surprise when he gets up from 
the table and pats me on the shoulder. 

"Thanks for the advice," he says, grinning, "but, if 
you don't mind, I won't pay a bit of attention to it. Joe, 
you're just cynical because your romance went sour." 

"O.K. But don't say I didn't tell you," I splutter. "You 
just ..." 

"Well, I gotta get going," he interrupts, "Amalgamated 
Gas Pipe is probably 'raring to line my pockets right now. 
So long. I'll invite you to the wedding." 

That is the last I see of Fred for nearly two weeks. 
During that time a lot of things happen to me. My luck 
with the ponies begins to get better by leaps and bounds. 
From the day I picked They're Off to beat Show Girl, my 
roll begins to take on sizeable proportions again. But, 
something better than that happens. Mary Lou — that's 
my girl friend — and I make up. Of course, when she first 
calls me on the 'phone, I think the fact that I have re- 
covered most of my ten G's may have something to do 
with her sudden friendliness. But, when she explains that 
she left me just to teach me not to be so careless with my 
dough, I realize how silly this idea is. Funny how a guy 
can be so cynical about women. 

Well, it isn't long before Mary Lou and I are just as 
sweet on each other as ever. We take in all the races 
together. We even begin to look at furniture together 
which will give you a pretty good idea how things are 
going. 

One morning I am sitting in Chez Antoine's waiting for 
Mary Lou to meet me for breakfast. Even with ten G's 
salted away, I like to gas with Antoine and eat his special 

—6— 



breakfast of hash and fried eggs. So there I am reading 
my tip sheet (which I like to read although I never fol- 
low it) when who should pop in but Fred Bender. Fred 
is not quite so chipper and it's easy to see that things are 
not so rosy as when I last saw him. 

After the usual talk about the weather and the Euro- 
pean situation, I decide to see if I can't find out what's 
eating Fred. Thinking maybe he has taken my advice 
about women and ditched his girl friend and feeling pret- 
ty remorseful about the whole thing, I say, "Listen, Fred, 
I want to tell you something. I was wrong about women. 
My girl ..." Before I can finish, he snaps me up in a 
cynical voice. 

"Oh, no, you weren't wrong! You were never more 
right. I've lost everything on Amalgamated Gas Pipe, and 
my girl left me. All she wanted was my money. And I 
thought you were cynical." I can see he is pretty broken 
up over the affair and, to tell the truth I am plenty sur- 
prised to hear the way things have turned out myself. But 
remembering how I was mistaken about women, I think 
maybe he has gotten the wrong slant on this dame. So 
I say: 

"Fred, don't take it so hard. Maybe you're mistaken 
about this girl. Maybe she's got some other reason for 
leaving you. Say, she'll come back to you just the way my 
girl did. Wait till you see my girl. She'll be here in a few 
minutes and you'll see how sweet she is." But he isn't lis- 
tening to me. He is staring at something over my shoulder. 
I turn around and look, but I can't see why he should be 
staring because it turns out to be Mary Lou coming into 
Chez Antoine. 

"What's the matter?" I ask him. 

"Let's get out of here," he mutters, "I don't want to be 
in the same room with that gold digging ..." 

"What the devil!" I gasp. "That's my girl, Mary Lou." 

And then I get it. 



—7- 



American Domestic Architecture 
East of the Mississippi 

@ F. Taylor Peck 



l^THEN man first realized the necessity for sheltering 
' himself from the violence of nature, domestic archi- 
tecture had its inception. The first crude dwelling began 
the immense movement of such a varied structure that 
is known to us today as domestic architecture. Ancient of 
the most ancient, it is concerned primarily with the needs 
of mankind for shelter, and in this way it is the source 
most readily available and most easily cognizant to the 
student of the customs and manners of the ordinary life 
of a people. In similar manner it illustrates the influence 
that climate and geographical conditions exercise upon 
national temperament. 

We in the United States are unusually fortunate in 
being able to scan the entire field of domestic architec- 
ture with a relatively unbiased eye and thereby are able 
to discern more clearly the interplay of styles, periods, 
and traditions that have filled the histories of the world 
about us. 

Yet it is, perhaps, this very advantage, combined with 
our close technical scrutiny of the means and methods 
of the architecture of other nations, that has blinded 
many writers and critics to the evolution of native Ameri- 
can domestic architecture. Another factor which may 
cause those who search for a distinctly national style to 
lament American imitation of European periods in domes- 
tic architecture, is that there have developed several ar- 
chitectural types which are distinctly American, and 
which, although they are derived ultimately from Euro- 
pean traditions, have no European prototype. These 
styles have developed organically with the nation and 
manifest such characteristics as to establish them original 
to this continent. They have been built with native ma- 
terials; they show evident climatic influences; and their 
structural form, ornamentation, and planning, though 
based ultimately on the European, exemplify naive and 
charming originality on the part of the builders. 

Regardless of how unified our States may be politically, 
the United States is a land peopled by many races, and 
it is only natural to expect that each group would employ 
as much as possible the architectural traditions of their 
homeland. These peoples are still in the process of fu- 
sion. It is probable that this mingling of races will never 



be complete ; therefore, we must expect to see the devel- 
opment of several individual, distinctly American archi- 
tectural traditions. 

In addition to this variety of racial influences, it is im- 
possible to assert just what conditions are typical of this 
vast land. What climate, what landscape, what tradition, 
what culture — what can be called typical of America? 
Evidently, the answer to these questions must be nega- 
tive. How can we expect, then, a style which is in itself 
typical of the entire country to emerge, even after two 
hundred years, and which will surplant both European 
forms and tradition, the sources of American art? It is 
natural, therefore, for several American styles to rise, 
based on our European heritage it is true, but which de- 
pend essentially and foremost upon the section of the 
country and the cultural background of the people in- 
habiting it. Please remember the relative size of the 
United States and Europe. 

Probably the first section of this country to achieve any 
extensive architectural individuality was New England. 
In this section of the small farm and the town meeting, 
the influence of both Tudor and Jacobean architecture is 
evident at the beginning of the development, but as the 
first years of the eighteenth century passed, the classic 
fashion (Georgian) penetrated the tastes of the people 
until the older Tudor and Jacobean traditions became 
completely dominated by the classic influence of Georg- 
ian. Out of the admixture of these, plus the influence of 
climate and native materials, evolved architectural forms 
which have become associated inseparably with New 
England. Three of these which are especially adaptable 
to use in modern (contemporary) domestic use, are the 
"salt-box," the Cape Cod cottage, and the traditional New 
England Farmhouse, this last having numerous sub- 
divisions in itself. These three have no prototypes in Eng- 
lish domestic architecture, and the closest sources of de- 
rivation are found in provincial English architecture. The 
rigors of the New England climate account for the use 
of central fireplaces, to preserve all the heat possible; 
steep gabled roofs, because of heavy snows and conse- 
quent moisture ; and the unusually sturdy construction in 
beaming in order to withstand the storms that come in 
off the Atlantic. In the early houses the builders used half- 
timber construction and an overhang in the second story. 
Both these English derivations disappear in the later 
houses, because the colonists found the overhang un- 
necessary in this country where land was so plentiful, and 
the half-timber construction gave way to the full wood 
frame and clapboard or shingle, since the latter was simp- 
ler and less expensive. 

When the New England coast grew prosperous in the 

—9— 



latter years of the eighteenth century, skilled craftsmen 
became more numerous and wielded a consequent in- 
fluence upon the tastes of the period. It was through these 
men many of the classical influences made themselves 
felt in the United States. Originally, these influences were 
expressed only in exterior ornamentation. But as the 
wealth grew, so did the native desire for luxury. The 
great mansions of the merchants and sea-captains reared 
themselves in excellent taste along the elm-shaded ave- 
nues of towns until Georgian if not George, ruled. 

A greater immediate variety of races settled in the 
Middle Atlantic states than in any other section of the 
country, especially in such a relatively confined area. 
Each people tried to reproduce as nearly as possible the 
houses of the old country, and in this way their national 
backgrounds exerted an individual influence upon the 
architecture of their states. Some succeeded in establish- 
ing a tradition in America ; some did not. All of their at- 
tempts are interesting and deserve study, but necessity 
demands that we restrict ourselves to two types that have 
found special favor, because of their flexibility and ap- 
propriateness. 

Dutch Colonial, the first product, is characterized as a 
low building, given both height and grace by the long 
sweep of the high gambrel roof. Since this type has be- 
come an instrument of domestic architecture, dormer 
windows have been added in the roof to provide light and 
air for additional rooms under the eaves, a space used by 
Dutch builders as a loft. The second important develop- 
ment in domestic architecture of these states is traceable 
to possible Welsh origins and is known to us as the more 
or less non-committal "Pennsylvania." These houses are 
built of stone found in convenient ledges which minimized 
quarrying. A white wood trim around windows and doors 
is accentuated by the irregular stonework, held by wide 
layers of mortar between stones. There is no particular 
standard when it comes to size and shape of these Penn- 
sylvania houses. They may have none of the symmetrical, 
box-like quality of many of the New England houses, or 
they may be rigidly formal in character. They may be 
small houses or mansions with many wings and variety of 
roof line. The whims and the necessities of the builder 
generally decided this. 

When we enter the Southern Atlantic States, we meet 
what many consider to be the peak of the development 
of American domestic architecture. This architecture is 
Georgian in its essentials, but the great freedom and in- 
dividuality in its use by the cultured landowners of the 
Southern colonies has engraved upon it the perfect seal 

—10— 



of American nationalism. The movement had its begin- 
nings in pre-Revolutionary times and continued in popu- 
larity until after the war of 1812 when our hostility to 
England turned our eyes toward France and the Empire 
for architectural inspiration. It is astonishing the man- 
ner in which these pre-Revolutionary planters lavished 
wealth and workmanship upon these mansions of un- 
equaled Georgian dignity and elegant taste. Beside this 
quiet dignity and stately elegance of the colonial aristo- 
crats, the palaces of Europe seem displays of lavish gaudi- 
ness. By these men were laid the foundations of the aris- 
tocracy of the South, its vast landholdings and its immense 
wealth and luxury. Through them passed the architec- 
tural traditions that led eventually to the Graeco-Roman 
revival. 

Men of wealth from the Great Lakes to the Gulf of 
Mexico found a new style in which to display their wealth 
and culture. Given impetus by the Empire period in Eu- 
rope, the revival found ready adherents in new Amecira. It 
undoubtedly began as one of the many fadish movements 
in architecture that have swept the United States, but 
what distinguishes it from the others is that it found per- 
manent place in the architectural traditions. What is 
more, they were suited to the climate and temperament 
of the builders of those times. And lastly, unlike the other 
fads, it has adaptability for modern uses. Above the Ohio 
River the designs of the initiators were followed more 
closely, and the general form of the buildings are more 
formal and rigid in style, and more superficial and arti- 
ficial in ornamentation than in the South. In the Southern 
States climatic conditions demanded high ceilings and 
much shade. The Greek devices suited these purposes ex- 
cellently, for the portico screened the unusual height of 
the houses, and the many galleries softened the heat of 
the sun, filling the interior of the houses with cool shade. 
Therefore the Graeco-Roman modes were turned to new 
and more elastic uses, connected in an organic way with 
the architectural unity and necessities of the plantation. 
The revival succeeded where the following age failed, 
because it lent itself more readily to the uses and devices 
of the individual craftsman, to modify and expand as he 
saw fit, thus escaping the curse of mere archaeological 
imitation. 

The decline of the Greek revival at the end of the Civil 
War left the United States in an artistic vacuum, espec- 
ially in regard to architecture. In England we saw the 
harking back to the Medieval and the Gothic. The Vic- 
torian influence was at its peak. Our colonial traditions 
were beneath the consideration of the new wealth of the 
North, and therefore were well dead. Unfortunately, the 
jig-saw had been developed, and this instrument led us 

—li— 



into an era of monumental bad taste and monstrous ugli- 
ness. There were undoubtedly some good things in the 
Age of Horror, but there were many bad things, and the 
bad, from this writer's view at least, completely obscured 
the good. 

The social ambitious American turned all shades of 
green in envy of the European and his culture, and worst 
of all, he tried to hide it behind a Gargantua of plate 
glass, plush, cast iron, ginger bread, cat-tails, brown- 
stone, and multitudes of absolutely useless junk. Man- 
sard roofs are charming. Fieldstone towers are romantic. 
Half-timber English is picturesque. Italian tiles are dis- 
tinctive. Normandy turrets and Gothic windows are ele- 
gant. But when these are thrown together with several 
lightning rods and oxblood wall-paper, what do you 
have? A picturesque Victorian Villa! 

I thoroughly dislike to end on a sour note, but it seems 
that it will be unavoidable. Nothing of architectural im- 
portance has occurred in relation with the topic under 
discussion, except possibly the use of pseudo-Renaissance 
forms in many of the larger resorts along the Atlantic 
coast, until we reach the early thirties of this century. It 
was then that once again American architects began to 
realize the great traditions and styles that lay at their 
disposal in the colonial developments in domestic archi- 
tecture. This subject is worthy of a separate treatment, 
and I had intended to discuss to the best of my ability 
some of the theories that have arisen in these past years 
in relation to domestic architecture. But the views of con- 
temporaries on the contemporary are always hazardous, 
so we will let well enough alone. Also I have written in 
my notes a discussion of American architectural needs, 
as I see them, but they too must remain for some future 
time. Finally, the last word of conclusion, I have inten- 
tionally omitted any reference to Creole architecture on 
the Gulf Coast, because of another paper on that allied 
subject. Thus we end a general discussion of the rise and 
development of the American tradition in domestic archi- 
tecture, from the earliest forms in New England to the 
close of the Victorian Age, east of the Mississippi. 



—12— 



Theism: a Basis of Moral Civilization 

• By Stockman O'Rourke 



IN these days when men are wont to gaze at one another 
in wild surmise and declare that the very foundation of 
modern civilization is threatened, it is well to ask our- 
selves just what this foundation is. War clouds hover 
angrily on the horizon, might treads heavily upon right, 
refugees roam homeless through the world, and virtue 
has been swept to the scrap-heap of mediaeval illusions. 
It is evident then that the complicated structure which 
we call civilization shows signs of decay and is in danger 
of an all too imminent collapse. We, as wise architects, 
must look first to the foundation, which has lain neglected 
so long that many have forgotten what it is. Once this 
foundation has been examined and renewed, we can then 
turn our efforts to repairing the superstructure. 

The thesis of this article can be stated briefly thus: 
Theism is the best, nay the only solid foundation of moral 
civilization. Upon this belief in the existence of a Supreme 
Being rest all orderly and stable societies. Upon it rest 
the permanent distinction between right and wrong, the 
respect for individual rights, and the true brotherhood of 
men. We shall examine the several theories which have 
been offered as a substitute for Theism and, having seen 
wherein they fail in their object, we shall show how 
Theism fulfills this purpose sweetly and thoroughly. 

Prominent among the theories which seek to replace 
Theism as the basis of moral civilization is the utilitarian- 
ism of such men as Jeremy Bentham and James Mill. 
These men and their disciples place the end of morality 
in "the greatest happiness of the greatest number/' Ac- 
cording to this theory, man seeks the well-being of his 
fellow men in order that he may find his own happiness. 
Since it is natural to man to value his own life most and 
to seek his own happiness first, it is natural that he should 
follow that course which will result in his own aggrandize- 
ment. However, being a social being, man cannot find his 
fullest "self-realization" in himself, so he must seek it 
in cooperation with others. Therefore, in seeking the de- 
velopment of humanity in general, man achieves his own 
development. 

This, then, is the utilitarian answer to the problem of 
morality. What a noble conception we have here! Man 
is friend to man because he cleverly foresees future advan- 
tage. Where is the obligation here? In its most altruistic 
form this philosophy is based upon mere sentiment or 
feeling and in its most egotistic form on calculating poli- 

—13— 



cy. In neither case does utilitarianism satisfy the idea of 
obligation or duty which is the only proper meaning of 
morality. 

At the door of Auguste Comte must be laid the blame 
for one of the most pernicious systems of morality. Under 
the name of Humanitarianism, it has spread widely and 
rapidly through the influence of such writers as Spencer, 
Huxley and Wells. It is, in its barest essentials, a dei- 
fication of man, and a turning of men from their final 
end to this world as an end in itself. The answer of Hu- 
manitarianism to the question of "Why should I be mor- 
al ?" is "For the sake of Humanity." It lays emphasis upon 
the brotherhood of man and pure altruism. 

In spite of the beautiful sentiments mouthed by these 
philosophers, they have nothing sound to offer as a basis 
of morality. Under what obligation am I to be good for 
the sake of Humanity? What absolute or obligatory value 
can Humanity give to morality isolated from religion? 
These irreligionists are powerless to enforce what they 
perceive to be necessary. Their "morality," moreover, 
being confined within the narrow limits of space and time, 
is stripped of all permanent value. Humanitarians can- 
not even offer us a serious inducement, much less an ob- 
gation, to lead a moral life. 

Kantian idealism offers a substitute for Theism which, 
on its face, seems rather plausible. Its norm of moral 
conduct may be stated thus: Perform onlv those acts 
which can be adopted as a universal law. This norm is 
imperative and unconditioned ; and it speaks to us imme- 
diately, for we are conscious of its commands. It rests 
not on any external motive or on speculative reasoning 
but on its own autonomous authority. Through it we 
come to an immediate realization of our obligation to 
strive towards the highest perfection which our mind is 
capable of conceiving. In the face of this categorical im- 
perative, as Kant termed it, we must waive all argument 
and render implicit obedience. 

As a practical criterion for determining modes of ac- 
tion, this categorical imperative has its importance but 
as a fundamental basis of morality it utterly fails in its 
object. It may seem imperative to Kant and a few other 
devotees of transcendental thought, but who contends 
that it will seem so to the universality of mankind? Even 
if men in general should conceive such an idea, they 
could easily dismiss it as a mental illusion. No mere men- 
tal state exerts authority over mankind in general. Final- 
ly, Kant's norm still leaves us confronting the ultimate 
"why" of morality. 

We may dismiss without discussion the evolutionary 
theory of morality since, by denying free will, it destroys 

—14— 



all notion of morality. Turning to another theory of 
ethics, we come to one known variously as Sentimental- 
ism, Moral Sensism, and Intuitionalism. According to this 
system, there is in man a special faculty, distinct from 
intellect or reason, for the perception of good and evil. 
This faculty intuitively distinguishes right from wrong al- 
most in the same manner as the ear distinguishes loud 
and soft sounds and the taste distinguishes sweet from 
sour. Therefore, the morality of an action depends upon 
whether it is agreeable to this moral sense. 

A criticism to this system resolves itself into the an- 
swers to the following questions: Is there such a moral 
faculty? Could such a faculty operate as an ultimate 
norm of morality? The answer to the first question is that 
there is no evidence to show that man is endowed with 
any such special faculty. To pretend that we have a sense 
that reacts to evils as the ear to cacophonous sounds is 
to perpetuate an unfounded fiction. Moreover, (and here 
we see the answer to the second question) even if we 
had such a faculty, it could not oblige us to follow its 
dictates since as only one of my faculties it could be over- 
ruled with perfect justice by my other faculties. Free will 
might stand up to it and overthrow it. Once again we feel 
the fatal lack of obligation in this norm. 

One important system of normative ethics remains to 
be discussed. This is the system proposed by the jurists 
who maintain that morality is based upon a mutual re- 
spect among men for each other's rights. Eecognizing our 
own rights to such things as self-preservation and self- 
realization, we demand that these rights be respected and 
thus imnlicitlv bind ourselves to respect these rights in 
others. The weakness of this theorv lies in its failure to 
prove the rights it mentions. Until those rights have been 
proven, no obligation or duty can be admitted. 

Having seen the various theories offered as a substi- 
tute for Theism as a basis of moral civilization, we turn 
now with a certain sense of relief to the original propo- 
sition, i.e., Theism is the only sound basis of morality. 
By Theism is meant the belief in a Somebody Who is in- 
expressibly superior to ourselves, the Author of our exist- 
ence, the absolute embodiment of perfection, a Person of 
intellect and will. Who has imposed upon us the obliga- 
tion of reflecting His righteousness and Who had made it 
possible for us to do this by stamping His law of right- 
eousness so clearly upon our minds that it has become 
imbedded in our very natures. Through a studv of this 
nature, we become aware of the specific laws He has im- 
posed upon us and we come to realize that He will reward 
or punish us insofar as we obey or disobey these obliga- 
tions. 

—15— 



Theism offers a solid rational basis for morality. It 
explains why we should avoid evil and why we should 
do good. It tells us that in God alone can we find the prin- 
ciple of moral obligation. Through it, our moral actions 
gain an absolute and eternal value. Through it, we come 
to understand that man is not an independent being but 
a being intimately dependent upon God. We understand, 
too, that this God has equipped man with an intellect and 
a will so wonderfully designed that he may follow the 
path to Heaven or to Hell. 

Theism provides a sound basis for our moral obligations 
toward our neighbors, toward ourselves, and toward God. 
In the first place, we must respect the rights of our fel- 
low men because in encroaching upon them we encroach 
upon the dominion of God. In the second place, we have 
a duty to use our faculties in the quest of truth and good- 
ness since they were given to us for this purpose. Finally, 
we are bound to reverence and obey God because He is 
the Author of everything we are or hope to be. 

Theism, then, seems to be the only sound basis of 
moral civilization. It presents a system which answers all 
the facts of consciousness and experience. However, it 
would be interesting to glance briefly over the history 
of civilization and examine the effects of acceptance or 
rejection of this morality. Surely a group of human beings 
which believes generally and firmly that good or evil- 
doing in this life are followed by corresponding conse- 
quences after death, that the individual soul is immortal, 
that God is the Father of all. will behave in one way and 
a group which rejects such ideas will behave in another. 
It is our purpose now to see what effect these ideas have 
had upon civilization in ancient and modern times. 

A thousand years before the birth of Christ, Greece was 
the glory of the ancient world. In art, literature, and phil- 
osophy she rivaled the best efforts of the modern mind 
and hand. She had everything that was necessary for a 
truly great and permanent civilization except one thing. 
The Greeks were without a sound basis of morality. They 
adored a great variety of gods and goddesses, subject to 
human frailities and low passions. Religion had no in- 
fluence upon the moral conduct of man. Philosophers 
taught a lofty morality, and a few nobler characters prac- 
ticed a certain degree of natural virtue. But the bulk of 
the people were given to an almost inconceivable immor- 
ality. The chief motive for right conduct, as far as it went, 
was a certain admiration, based on natural motives, for 
moderation and temperance. Here there is a morality, 
without a basis in Theism, succumbing to the pride and 
passion of man. 

Similarly Rome resembles Greece. Having lost faith in 
even the pagan deities of earlier times, the Romans sank 

—16— 



to the very depths of iniquity. Brutal gladiatorial games 
were the most popular sport of the time. Marriage, being 
divorced from religion, became a mere civil contract 
which might be dissolved almost at will. Euthanasia, 
homosexuality, incest, adultery — such were the common 
evils of the day. Slavery in its most cruel and degrading 
form was the economic basis of Roman society. Worst of 
all, despair was in the hearts of men. A sense of futility, 
of the darkness of human life, began to dominate the 
thoughts of men. And this despair was not to be banished 
until the coming of the supreme Theism of Christianity. 

Having seen the dire effects which accompany the 
divorcing of civilization from Theism, let us turn now to 
an age when morality was rooted in its true base. The 
Middle Ages in Europe was a period of grand faith in the 
ideas which accompany Theism in its best form. In that 
time man came nearer to the rule of justice on earth than 
at anytime before or since. In that time all temporal af- 
fairs were looked at in the light of eternity. 

Individual and social rights were fostered through the 
gild system. Conditions which trade unions now strive 
desperately to attain were regarded as a matter of couse 
by mediaeval workers. Regulated salaries and hours of 
work, opportunities for rest and recreation, compensation 
for the aged, the sick, and for widows and orphans, op- 
portunities for advancement — all these were built upon 
the solid foundation of Theism. 

The moral tone of life in the Middle Ages was its high- 
est glory. Such evils as suicide, birth control, euthanasia, 
and divorce were non-existent or so rare that they hardly 
affected society in general. The society of the Middle 
Ages was not without its defects but with moral univer- 
sality it recognized religion as the source of the moral, 
social and political order. 

Modern times are not without their lesson in regard to 
Theism as a basis of moral civilization. Three of the 
much discussed "isms" which dominate civilization in Eu- 
rope and which threaten to extend their control to the 
other continents are all fundamentally a denial of the 
true basis of ethics. Communism regards religion as the 
"opium of the people. " With such an attitude, openly pro- 
fessed and assiduously fostered, it is no wonder that moral 
civilization has reached a low ebb in the countries domi- 
nated by this philosophy. In the Union of Soviet Socialist 
Republics the family has no legal status, divorce is un- 
restricted, and sexual relationships are uncontrolled. 
Earthly happiness is offered as the ultimate goal of man- 
kind. In spite of its cry of human equality, Communism 
has no respect for individual rights. In spite of its claim 
of offering an earthly paradise to man, Communism can 
offer nothing that really satisfies the human heart. Man 

—17— 



has an insatiable thirst for truth and beauty which noth- 
ing less than God can satisfy. Cut man off from God and 
moral decay is inevitable. 

Fascism and Nazism are both cut from the same cloth. 
Both have substituted the State for God and both recog- 
nize in the State no duties, only rights. The State as con- 
ceived by Fascism and Nazism has no duties towards 
individuals. It recognizes no laws except those made by 
itself. Neither does this State respect the rights of the 
family. Since the State is its own end, marriage and the 
functions of parents are directed to the uses of the State. 
Though religion may receive the reluctant protection of 
such a State, it is only as a matter of policy because the 
State denies religion any real control over social and indi- 
vidual activities. Fascism and Nazism have forgotten the 
lesson of history which shows only too plainly that no law 
is immutable except the divine law, and that to build on 
current sentiment instead of on God and reason is to 
build on quicksand. 

In this country, though we are relatively free of the 
baleful influence of Communism, Fascism and Nazism, we 
have seen the results of a weakening of faith in God as 
the ultimate Author, Legislator, Rewarder and Punisher 
of humanity. Our educational system has completely di- 
vorced itself from the idea of God and our obligations to 
Him. In our own time we have seen the results of this 
divorce. Many of the evils which contributed to the down- 
fall of the ancient civilizations are much too common in 
American society. Suicide, divorce, crime, insanity and 
venereal diseases are so widespread that the cheeriest 
optimist will find it difficult to survey current society with- 
out some misgivings. Progress in things material has not 
been accompanied by a progress in things spiritual. God 
will not be mocked — we have seen and we know! 

Men of many beliefs have come to recognize the funda- 
mental cause of all these evils. The brutal facts have 
turned men's minds back to God. There they see a sure 
bulwark for the crumbling edifice of moral civilization. 
There they behold the surest safeguard of individual 
rights. There they observe the strongest inducement to 
the fulfillment of man's duties to himself, his neighbors 
and to God. Only through Theism will man be restored 
to moral soundness, for it is only through Theism that 
man is formed to the image of God. 



—18— 



End of Yesterday 



• David Loveman 



WE had fared much better than most homes in Ten- 
nessee during that unusually hot summer of 1864, 
for we had managed to retain a small stock of provisions 
and even a few luxuries, while the house servants and 
several of the field hands had remained with us. And 
November found us a contented lot, despite the general 
conditions of the country. 

With November, the news of the pillaging and burning 
of Atlanta took us by surprise. Mother came out on the 
upper gallery where I was sitting, watching the leaves 
falling from the trees in a golden snowstorm, and told 
me about it. When she had finished she was a little quiet- 
er than usual and, I thought, a little sad. I took her hand 
when she came to wrap the quilt closer around my leg. 
She patted my head, just as she did when I was a small 
boy and sick. 

"Heard from Dad?" 

"No, Kayel," she answered, "not lately." In the pause 
that followed, I felt the full meaning of her words. Father 
had been stationed with Hood in Atlanta. 

"You're pretty brave, Mom/' was all I could say. I 
knew she understood what I meant. 

"Brave!" she repeated, her hand growing heavy upon 
my forehead. "Not any more. All my bravery has been 
placed in you and your father. You need my strength to 
recover from the Yankee bullet in your leg. Your father 
needs my courage and determination to come to us again. 
I just need patience." 

But Mother was wrong. She was not only brave, but 
the pillar of strength that kept the house running as near 
its regular schedule as possible. We were not bothered 
much by the Yankees or by movements of our own gray- 
clad soldiers as we were too far off the beaten path be- 
tween Murfreesboro and Nashville. Since the battle on 
Stone's River in '63, our neighborhood had been compar- 
atively quiet. Only a few Confederate stragglers visited 
us in search of food or lodging on their way home to heal 
their wounds; or occasionally a small band of Yankee 
foragers came our way, but after a careful search depart- 
ed empty handed. 

Mother had taken care of everything. She was constant- 
ly on the alert to keep one step ahead. All the valuable 
silver and china and laces she stored in the secret cellar 
beneath the west wing of the house. This cellar was im- 
pregnable even if discovered, which was unlikely. Two 

—19— 



miles from the house, in the woods across the river, she 
had the field hands raise a summer garden which supplied 
ample fresh vegetables for the summer and yielded pota- 
toes and other reliable dishes for winter storage. We had 
two cows, several horses and an old sow and her litter in 
pens across the river, and so there was little chance of us 
ever starving. 

November passed monotonously as the previous months. 
My leg healed slowly and by the latter part of November 
I was able to hobble about painfully with the help of 
Joppy, our stable boy, and a cane. Father sent a brief 
message telling us of his safety and future plans. Prac- 
tically nothing was left of Atlanta. Mother was alarmed, 
but I hastened to reassure her that there would be no 
fighting near Nashville. The Union forces theie were too 
strong for Hood to venture an attack. Left to my own 
counsels, I was not so sure. 

One cold and grey afternoon as the wind whistled 
'round the corners of the house I sat before the sparse fire 
that burned half-heartedly in the iron grate of the library, 
feeling dully the pain in my leg and brooding just as dul- 
ly over the war. In the sewing room above I heard the 
faint rustling of Mother's skirts as she passed to and fro. 
I was almost asleep. 

Suddenly into the stillness there stole the faint and 
then louder sounds of an approaching horse and buggy. 
I could hear the gravel crunch under the wheels. The doc- 
tor? No, his visits were so few nowadays and he never 
used a buggy. 

Mother had evidently heard too for there came the dim 
creaking of the stairs as she descended. Damn, this leg! 
It could not possibly be the Yankees, and yet no one else 
ever came this way. 

The hinges of the front door squeaked as it swung open. 
The horse drew to a halt. Voices, laughter echoed back to 
me, and then they were beside me, Mother and our cou- 
sins from Atlanta. They were almost strangers to me it 
had been so long since I had seen them, but soon I was 
able to say: "Yes, this is Cousin Nevada and little Philis- 
sia." Little Philissia! Yet she was merely a small girl in 
lace pantaloons when last I had seen her. She laughed 
gaily at the recollection, and I marvelled at the sound of 
her voice. 

She was not beautiful, this rather pale, laughing girl 
who stood before me, but about her was such a spirit of 
youth, of gay abandon, that I was caught in the swirl of 
it and looked deep into her eyes to catch the gladness of 
her being. She was younger than I, scarcely seventeen; 
yet her figure was full and, despite the drabness of her 
dress, which had once been fine, she bore a charming 
stateliness that I found almost humorous. 

—20— 



Philissia laughed, but Cousin Nevada was a bundle of 
nerves and frequently broke into pitiful sobs. 

"And our lovely home!" she would say. "Gone. Every- 
thing's gone. We are the most unfortunate of people." 

"But, Mother," Philissia smiled pathetically, "that's 
absurd. Thousands were less fortunate than we. We es- 
caped with our lives, and we do have such lovely relatives 
in Tennessee, distant cousins at that, who were kind 
enough to take us in." 

But she was not to be consoled. 

So perfectly did they fit into our way of living that it 
seemed almost impossible they had not always been there. 
Now there was company for Mother as she went about the 
household tasks, and best of all there was laughter in the 
cold, drab rooms. 

The fighting continued under the light falls of snow 
and the grey skies of winter. Occasionally across the still- 
ness of late evening, we could hear the roar of distant 
guns. But mostly we were uninterested. The war was not 
new to us. It had long ago lost the romantic notions it had 
at first inspired. It had gone on too long, and taken too 
much from us to arouse ever again anything but hatred. 
For countless months I had felt its bitter hand as it struck 
upon the lines of gray. I knew the despair, the pain, the 
hunger, the thirst of battle. Out on a gory field I had 
vomited the first time I slew a man. Thank God, that 
Yankee bullet had wormed its way into my leg! Even 
though I never walk again, it would be better than walk- 
ing across a field of corpses, each one cold and white in 
the moonlight. Thank God, for that bullet ! Thank God ! 

Wherever I was, Philissia was there. She would bring 
me my breakfast in the morning, urging me to eat that 
my strength would return. She would place an extra pil- 
low under my leg or behind my back. When I wanted a 
drink, she was there, smiling when I looked surprised. 
She was present when there was death in the slave quar- 
ters, she saw that the cattle were properly fed, and often 
visited the storeroom to see that all was aright. She gave 
Mother a chance to rest. 

"You've done so much for us, Philissia," I said to her 
one day as we sat together on the back terrace. "It's real- 
ly been our good fortune that you came." 

She only smiled, just as she always did when we men- 
tioned her work. Setting there on the stone step in the 
sun, she seemed almost golden. Her head was bare, and 
her light curls, touched with the faintest tinge of brown, 
radiated the sunlight. Marigold must have looked just 
as she, when her father transformed her into a golden 
statue. 

—21— 



"Warm enough?" she asked. She had insisted that I 
be placed in the sun, so that I could get a little fresh air. 
"You'll never get well if you spend the rest of your life 
indoors. 'Nother pillow?" 

"No, thanks, I'm fine." 

She was silent for a moment, while the sun whisked 
behind a cloud, and the shadows of the barren trees faded 
away into the frozen ground. A stiff wind bent the lighter 
trees in the garden almost double. The heavy wool of her 
skirt whipped against her ankles. The sun reappeared 
and the wind became quiet, 

"I've been thinking, Kayel," she finally said. 

"Thinking? What?" 

"It will soon be Christmas and a New Year. What's to 
become of us? Once we were a happy people, secure in 
our homes, and slaves, our cotton or tobacco fields, our 
balls and our barbecues, our oak trees and our flower 
gardens. Life was full and pleasant. Where is it now? 

"Our boys marched away as we laughed and cried and 
waved flags. Each one was so proud of his new gray uni- 
form. Those who have returned were ragged and dirty. 
They smelled of sweat and blood and their bodies were 
caked with filth. These men aren't the strong, handsome 
boys we sent away. Where are they? 

"We sent a soldier away too, Mother and I. He kissed 
us goodbye, and when the war was over he would return. 
We were to wait for him. But we've waited so long, and 
he hasn't returned. Where is our soldier?" 

Philissia never spoke of the war again nor of the father 
she had lost, but often I could detect traces of tears on 
her cheeks, and knew she was thinking of him. 

The days grew colder and the food scarcer. Mother 
kept saying that we must be more careful if we did not 
wish to starve before the winter ended. Several of the 
field hands died and a few left, but Joppy, his wife Louise, 
Tellie, one of the maids, the cook and a few enfeebled old 
Negroes who were to weak to move, remained. Although 
we carefully meted out our supply of coffee, it was ex- 
hausted before Christmas so that we were forced to pre- 
pare a brew of okra seed, wheat or barley, which served 
as a tolerable substitute. At least it could be heated and 
was useful as a stimulant on cold December mornings. 
Then, too, the salt gave out, and so the walls, barrels, and 
even the dirt of the ^smokehouse were carefully scraped 
for the few grains that had fallen from the salted meat 
that had been hung there to dry in days gone by. 

Mother, Cousin Nevada and Philissia, with the assist- 
ance of Tellie and Cook, were kept busy giving the old 
clothes we wore at least a hint of decency. Yet for some 
reason the hardest pang of all came when I saw Mother 
take out her carefully wrapped ball dress, and strip the 

—22— 



dainty ruffles from it, so that the lovely satin of the vo- 
luminous skirt could be used as a petticoat to ward off the 
cold. I could not keep back the tears. 

And once Mother had worn that very dress at a ball in 
this house. How lovely she had been as she greeted each 
guest at the foot of the winding staircase. Father was 
there beside her, so straight and tall in his new uniform 
with each glittering button gleaming in the candlelight. 
Had there actually been a ball in this still, old house? 
Did these walls, now grim and silent, once look down 
upon a body of dancers? That had been before the out- 
break of the war. Almost four years ago ! My God, how 
long since then! 

I was just fifteen and it was my first real, grown-up 
ball. How I enjoyed watching the fun! All night long 
they danced ; all night long the ruffles of new ball dresses 
heaved and swayed in perfect rhythm with the music. 
The flexible hoops that made each dress a perfect circle 
of lace and ribbons, bent and swirled a thousand times, 
fitting themselves close to each slender body when a uni- 
formed partner took one in his arms; bobbing gaily up 
a*nd down as they turned and skipped in the breathtaking 
steps of the polka; waving in the graceful turns of the 
waltz. It was a happy, colorful sight; one I shall always 
remember. 

Several times during the month important officers of 
the Confederate army always were near our home as a 
halt was called, and the sight of gray soldier boys camp- 
ing in our tobacco fields became customary. Mother pre- 
tended to be delighted that they honored us with their 
company, but secretly I knew she was wondering whether 
to bring forth the last of the fresh meat, or to set out one 
of the few remaining bottles of wine. Once at dinner, one 
of the servants mentioned the pens in the woods, and 
upon careful inspection the next day the Captain, after 
thanking us profusely for our hospitality, announced po- 
litely that our horses would be conscripted for use in the 
army. Our own soldiers became more a nuisance than the 
Yankees. 

Suddenly one day, as she stood with us in the drawing 
room, Cousin Nevada became desparately ill. She grew 
worse and we were powerless to help her. We sent Joppy 
into Nashville with a pearl necklace in lieu of money to 
get a doctor or at least some medicine, but it was useless. 
He returned empty handed. Yankee soldiers had taken 
the necklace for his safe passage through the city. 

For several weeks, as my leg had become worse and 
gave me increasing pain, I had been sleeping on the sofa 
in the drawing room. Once near midnight I was awaken- 
ed by the sound of movement in the yard and a sharp 
knock on the door. 

—23— 



" Who's there?" I called. 

A voice came in out of the night. "You'll hafta leave ; 
there's gonna be a battle here." Retreating footsteps, the 
sound of hooves flying, and silence ! 

As simple as that. " — there's gonna be a battle !" There 
would be guns and soldiers and fighting. Shells would fly 
through the night. Perhaps our home would escape, per- 
haps not. 

But what could we do? Upstairs lay three sleeping 
women. One was sick, maybe dying. Here alone in the 
room was I, my leg wounded and throbbing with pain. 
A few feet away in the dining room, asleep on a pallet, 
lay Joppy. That was all and the house was dark and still. 
But outside, there was movement and excitement. Voices 
echoed through the night and the rumble of artillery 
swept across the lawn, louder and louder, until the air was 
fit to burst with the chaos. 

With my cane, I knocked upon the floor for Joppy, and 
when he finally stood beside me, spoke softly, my brain 
resounding without. But it was loud only to me, for Joppy 
knew nothing of the preparations. He stood and blinke/d 
stupidly, his eyes dull with sleep. 

My hand clutched his arm in the darkness, and I said : 
"Go quietly up to Miss Philissia's room. Tell her to come 
at once. Make no noise and above all say nothing to 
Mother. Do you understand?" 

I heard his bare feet shuffling across the floor and the 
stairs creaked softly beneath his weight. It would not do 
to show any light, but I lighted a candle and placed it on 
the floor beside the sofa. The glow was dim and feeble 
and the blinds were drawn. 

It seemed as if scarcely a moment passed before Philis- 
sia stood within the circle of candlelight. For a moment 
I was startled. Her approach had been noiseless and as 
I glanced up she stood there, her hair as soft and radiant 
about her face as a halo. Her gown, a film of whiteness, 
hung loose and full about her body. I thought she was an 
angel. I almost screamed with the pain in my leg. 

"Kneel down beside me," I said, and as she did, I blew 
out the candle. I felt the pressure of her breasts on my 
arm. Her breath came slowly. She trembled and I threw 
a blanket about her shoulders. The fire had burned into 
embers in the grate and the room was cold. 

I told her of the coming battle and heard her catch her 
breath. Her fingers clutched my arm. I waited for her to 
speak, and in the interval of silence, the sound of running 
feet crept into the room. 

"But," she whispered, "Mother is too ill to be moved. 
And your leg! It would be madness to leave." She arose 
and crossed to the window but in an instant was back 
again. "There are men camped in the bottom pasture. And 

— 24V— 



there are signal lights flashing back and forth across the 
meadows. That's all I could see. They'll begin any mo- 
ment." Suddenly her head was on my chest, her hair soft 
and sweet in my face. "Oh, God!" she sobbed. "What's 
to become of us?" 

The silence was maddening. The quiet before the 
storm. I patted her head. 

"We must wait and see," I said. "Just wait and see." 

Yet it was not as bad as we feared. The skirmish was 
light and most of the shots passed harmlessly to the right. 
We felt the shock of the battle in little ways: the noise 
of the guns, the rattling of windows, or the quivering of 
the earth as a cannon fired and bit the ground. By morn- 
ing it was over. Only a few dead marked the slaughter of 
the night. 

Soon Phillissia smiled again and we were contented. 
Several times Father secured a pass and spent a few hours 
with us. His visits were replete with stirring tales of the 
siege. For nearly two weeks they had been laying siege 
to Nashville, but Thomas, secure within the city, did not 
answer their challenge. There were reports that Grant 
himself was on his way to Tennessee. Mother was always 
loath to let him return but he smiled away her fears — 
"... and when we retake Nashville, I'll return for good." 
He was so confident that Mother and I believed him. But 
Nashville was never retaken; for on the fifteenth of De- 
cember, 1864, Thomas appeared from behind his en- 
trenchments. For two days we could hear the roar of the 
battle, like the beating of a thousand drums in the dis- 
tance. 

Through the long night of the fifteenth and sixteenth 
Mother prayed. She prayed for the safety of her husband, 
caring little whether the Confederacy was victorious. I 
watched her kneeling in the candlelight with her little 
golden crucifix clasped against her breast. Her lips moved 
unceasingly during the long night and at each angry mut- 
tering that rolled across the darkness, she trembled and 
grew paler. Finally she fell asleep by her chair. 

For several days we knew nothing but the awful fear 
in our hearts. But then we learned the truth. The Confed- 
erate Army of Tennessee was stationed in defeat at Brent- 
wood. Hood had asked to be relieved of his command. But 
all that mattered was that Father lived. We scarcely be- 
lieved it. All we could do was to thank God. Father was 
sent to join Johnston and life at home went on as usual — 
patching clothes, eating scraps of food, watching snow 
cover the frozen fields and the darkness fall at the end 
of each passing day. 

Christmas dawned gray and depressing, with a little 
flurry of snow towards noon. Philissia with Joppy's as- 
sistance had brought in a little cedar tree, and placed it 

—25— 



in the corner of the drawing room ; but it did not blaze 
with candles as our trees in other years and the little at- 
tempt made to give it color were almost pitiful. Scraps of 
gay cloth, red and green, were scattered over the bristly 
limbs and here and there a string of glass beads sparkled 
in the firelight. Beneath the branches Fhilissia had placed 
her presents for each one. Mother cried over the shawl 
that she received, and I felt a lump in my throat as I 
recognized in the socks she gave me tne blue yarn she had 
unraveled from a sweater 1 had often seen her wearing. 

Dinner was cheerless and unpleasant. The long dining 
room, with the crystal chandelier that had looked down 
on so many scenes of festivity before the war, was chill 
and dark and unusually empty. The damask draperies, 
once so rich and fine, hung faded and limp against the 
cracking walls. Tiny flakes of snow spattered dully upon 
the window panes. Even the age-old bottle of wine long 
imprisoned in the cellar, failed to restore us to our usual 
good cheer. 

Yet that Christmas Day shall never pass from my mem- 
ory, for it was then, in the dusk of early evening, that I 
met Maleen. Mother had known her father; she had prom- 
ised to care for his daughter when he died — he had been 
buried the day before Christmas Eve. 

Maleen stepped from the old buggy she must have 
hired to bring her from Nashville, and I saw only a bun- 
dle of furs, not worn and patched as those I had lately 
seen, but soft and velvety. 

Mother greeted her warmly at the door, yet her eyes 
were troubled as she brought her in to see me. "And this 
is my son, Kayel," she said. "Kayel, this is Maleen." 

"Maleen," I repeated and looked up at the tall and 
commanding figure beside my chair. Her wrap had fallen 
from her shoulders and I saw her dress of soft green cash- 
mere. Her hair, parted in the middle with a cascade of 
curls that fell upon her neck, was extremely dark, and 
her skin was as pale and beautiful as the magnolia blos- 
soms that smile from the trees in the garden. I gazed into 
eyes still and dark and deep, and for a moment I was 
frightened, yet fascinated, just as I had when, as a child, 
I looked down into the bottomless depths of our well. 

Her voice flowed as smooth as honey pouring from the 
pitcher onto my hot cakes. "I do hope we shall be friends." 
She said no more, but I felt strangely elated and comfort- 
ed, as though a cooling cloth had been placed on my 
fevered cheek. I could only smile in reply. 

As the days sped by and the first of the new year had 
come and gone, I began to feel as if I really knew and 
understood Maleen. Somehow the rest of the family did 
not seem so favorably impressed with this quiet, lovely 
young woman, who was silent and melancholy whenever 

—26— 



they were present. But with me she was a different per- 
son. She would talk for hours of the books and music for 
which we had a mutual liking or of the many little things 
that interested us. I found her agreeable, well read and 
extremely fascinating. Soon I was falling in love with her 
and was powerless to do otherwise. 

Sometimes I fancied that Mother and even Philissia re- 
sented her presence. Once I found them watching her with 
displeasure as she chatted and laughed with a Confeder- 
ate officer who dropped in for dinner. So deeply had I 
fallen beneath her charms that l found myself taking her 
part against the rest. Often she would be gone for hours 
at a time and, upon her return, would offer no explana- 
tion for her absence. 

"You must remember," I told Mother, "that she is a 
stranger here. She does not know us well enough to feel 
at home. It is only natural for her to want to be alone and 
away from us for awhile, and we must not force ourselves 
into her privacy unless she wishes it." Secretly I was wor- 
ried, not only because she left us for such long intervals, 
but for her health. As the days passed she grew pale and 
would tremble at the slightest noise. Stark terror entered 
her eyes when she heard the sound of approaching hooves 
or the distant rumble of the guns that echoed only faintly. 

One evening we were seated in the upstairs sitting 
room. A fire burned weakly on the hearth and the and- 
irons glowed from the flame. It was early, but Mother, 
complaining of a headache, had gone to her room ; Philis- 
sia was with her mother. Maleen and I were alone in the 
room. She was facing the fire and the light of the blaze 
caught and glimmered in the folds of her dress. The faint 
sound of the fire and the rustle of the leaves of my book 
alone disturbed the silence. Suddenly she rose and, stand- 
ing at the window, gazen intently out into the night. A 
shutter flapped against the house. "I'm frightened," she 
said. 

I looked up as she turned slowly to face me. I held out 
my hands and she took them, desperately as a drowning 
man would clutch at a rope. I pulled her gently to the 
sofa beside me. "Frightened?" I repeated. "There's noth- 
ing to fear." 

"Oh, but there is; and it's grabbing at me. Sometimes 
I wake at night and can't breathe. I can feel it all around 
me wherever I turn. It's out there in the dark. It's in this 
very room." 

"Poor little one ! But you are safe. You are among those 
who love you." 

"Those who love me?" Her tone was incredulous. 

How I longed to take her in my arms and kiss away 
her fears! It was anguish to see her suffering. Could I 

—27— 



offer her anything? Could I lessen that awful terror in 
her eyes? 

"Oh, Kayel," she cried, "say it again, and again; say 
it forever." 

"I love you. Could you not tell it? It has been in my 
face, in my voice. Oh, my darling, I love you so much that 
no matter what happens — " 

She leaned down slowly and touched the edge of my 
hair with the tips of her fingers. Her hand was cool and 
tender and her lips as they met mine were beyond des- 
cription. I saw her eyelids flutter and close, shutting out 
everything but our love for each other. 

"And I love you," she muttered, "forever and ever and 
ever." 

"We'll be married right away, and when the war is 
over — " 

"No." She rose and stood facing the fire. I could see the 
orange and 1 crimson shadows play over her face. My 
breath came slowly. Was this the blank wall — this one 
word — towards which all my dreams had led? Was I to 
hold her in my arms and then watch helplessly as she 
walked away? 

"You mean — ? But you said — " 

"I know. I said I love you." Her voice was cool and low 
and yet it filled the room. "But I can never marry you." 

"I don't understand." 

"Some day you will. You'll thank me then, when the 
war is over." 

"I can't live without you." There was something press- 
ing within my heart. The fire was almost gone and the 
deepening shadows fell heavily on my soul. "And the war 
will soon be over. Our lives will go on then, just as they 
did before. The guns and battles won't touch us then. 
We'll rest secure and happy together." 

"No," and she was sobbing pitifully now. "No, Kayel. 
I'm sorry." She drew away and focused her eyes on the 
last of the dying embers. "Forgive me." 

And she was gone. The door closed softly behind her 
and the rustle of her dress sounded dimly in the hall and 
was gone. I was alone in the darkness. 

The days now dragged slowly. Maleen avoided me and 
we spoke no more of our love. She was gone more often 
and stayed away longer than before. I could not bear to 
think of her exposed in enemy infested territory. Yet she 
always returned. 

One day, when Maleen was gone, Philissia came into 
my room. "I don't like her, Kayel," she said. "She doesn't 
seem to fit into our world ; our bitter, mean world of pov- 
erty and heartbreak. Perhaps I'm wrong; if so, I'm sorry. 
I would like to like her." She looked steadily at me. "She 
is very beautiful." 

—28— 



I returned her gaze a little uneasily. I wondered if she 
knew my secret. Her eyes wandered from my face. 

"You love her." 

My wall of secrecy was broken. I could only nod. She 
was on her knees beside me as she had been that night 
so long ago when we listened to the guns in the darkness. 

"And she loves you?" The countless yards of her dress 
swirled about her like a turbulent sea of green. 

"I don't know," I replied. 

Her voice was a monotone. The collar heaved on her 
bosom. "She does. I know she does. It's funny you love 
her so much and can't see she loves you. It's funny the 
way things turn out, isn't it, Kayel. But she can't, Kayel, 
she can't love you as much as I — " 

She was frightened now of what she had said. Her hand 
was at her mouth to recapture the works that had al- 
ready stolen from her. She rose and walked across the 
room, a blur of green before my eyes, and I was power- 
less to call her back. At the door she turned, her head 
resting against the panel, her hand clutching the knob. 

"I'm sorry, Kayel. Forgive me." She did not look back 
as she closed the door. 

Somehow we went on, living there together — Philissia, 
Maleen and I. We saw each other every day and each day 
was heavy with unspoken words. 

Joppy, returning from Nashville, brought us the news 
that the Union forces were battering at the gates of Rich- 
mond. Thousands upon thousands lay on the fields as our 
armies retreated. How long would it last? How long 
could it last? 

We woke one morning to find ourselves practically hem- 
med in by snow. The fields were covered with a white 
blanket, though here and there a straggly tree loomed 
above the white drifts. Winter seldom brought such a 
snowfall to the South and were it not for the added misery 
it brought, we would have enjoyed the beauty of white 
fields and the low sculptured hills fading into a sky of 
limitless gray. 

Maleen made countless trips to the windows, peering 
out into the wintry day as if to melt the snow by her gaze. 
It was plain she was annoyed. Seated at table her fingers 
drummed a nervous tattoo on its edge. She spoke sparsely 
and ate almost nothing. I was decidedly puzzled. 

Towards evening as she stood by the window, I saw her 
stiffen suddenly, though I gave her no inkling I had no- 
ticed as she turned towards me. Her face was pasty white 
and her hands gripped the curtains as if to steady her- 
self. After a moment, she left the window and, taking the 
chair nearest me, picked up her book. 

—29— 



For a brief moment no one spoke, and in the silence of 
the room the sound of a fist hammering on the door spread 
brazenly through the house. Mother rose to her feet. Ma- 
leen was breathing fast. Her lower lip bled from the pres- 
sure of her teeth. 

"Who on earth could that b§? Soldiers I suppose, " 
Mother's voice was faintly excited. I knew she was think- 
ing of Dad. 

From the hall the cadence of low pitched voices echoed 
vaguely through the closed door. 

"Howdy do, Ma-am. I hate to bother you-all, but I'm 
afraid I shall have to ask you to let us stay here for 
awhile." 

"It will be no trouble at all, Captain Summers," Mother 
answered. "We haven't so much to offer, but it's all 
yours." 

"Thank you, Ma'am. There's only two of us, Sergeant 
Woodlawn and I. We'll try to make our stay as brief as 
possible. We're on a secret mission from General Lee. 
Your husband told us we could make our headquarters 
here. We'll be needing a private room, if you please." 

"Of course. How is my husband? You've seen him re- 
cently? Now, if you'll just come this way, Captain, I'll 
show you to your room — " Her voice trailed off as she 
mounted the stairs. The sharp click of spurs and the rat- 
tle of a sword followed. 

The faint glimmer of the firelight revealed the relief 
on Maleen's face. Her eyes met mine, and she smiled al- 
most joyfully. How beautiful she was! 

It did not take long for Mother to return. She was wor- 
ried. "What shall we feed them, Kayel? There's very 
little left in the storeroom." 

"Would it be possible for me to go into Nashville?" 
Maleen volunteered. "Perhaps — " 

"No!" Mother's voice was almost cutting in its sharp- 
ness. "Captain Summers made it plain that we could not 
leave the house. Their business is so important that they 
cannot risk any chance of the Federals learning of it." 

I learned later from Captain Summers that we would 
all have to remain within the house and garden until their 
work was done and they had returned to the army. He 
explained they could take no chances as the fate of the 
Confederacy might hang in the balance of their success 
or failure. 

He could do nothing but comply with his orders. The 
days were long and dreary, the nights cold and bitter. We 
were caught in the ebb tide of the war; caught and forced 
to drift more and more away from the anchorage of peace 
and joyful living we once knew. Resistance was useless. 
We could do nothing but keep our heads barely above the 

—30— 



muddy swirl and watch helplessly the shattered remnants 
of a fear-swept land float by in ruins. 

Towards evening of one of those rain-soaked days, Jop- 
py burst into the library where I was sitting. He was un- 
usually excited. The sweat glistened on his face in spite 
of the cold. 

"Oh, Lawd, Mist' Kayel, Ah done seed him, de Massa!" 

"Father?" 

Joppy nodded vigorously and his eyes were wide and 
unbelieving. My heart pounded within me. Father in 
Nashville! I could see him wounded, perhaps dying in 
some prison camp. 

"He is mighty sick, he is. Dey tooken him to de Cap'tol." 

The door swung open, and as I turned Mother stood 
there. Her hand clutched the knob and her face was paler 
than the white trimmings on her faded lavender dress. 
She had come down suddenly from Cousin Nevada's sick 
room and had heard the news that Joppy had intended 
only for me. As she turned to me I could see the same 
look in her eyes as a wounded animal at bay, pain and 
sorrow and bewilderment. 

"Joppy," she said, and her voice rustled as faintly as 
the evening breeze in the maple leaves, "go upstairs and 
get my bonnet and cloak. Then bring the carriage around 
to the front. We are going to Nashville." 

"Lawdy, Ma'am, dat howse am' able to make no trip 
to de city. She plum wore out and am' had nothin' to eat 
fo' a long time." 

"Do as I tell you," she cried, and as he retreated to car- 
ry out her orders, she crossed to me. 

"What must I do, Kayel? The capitol is so horrible 
since the Yankees made it into a prison. It's dirty and 
smellv and the walls are covered with lice, Joppy savs. 
And he's sick and weak and will be so uncomfortable 
there. Do vou think they will allow me to bring his home? 
Thev could watch him just as well here and he would be 
so much better off." 

"Mother," I answered, "have you forerotten Captain 
Summers? We're not supposed to leave the house, and 
even if you are allowed to see Father, it would be im- 
possible for him to stav here with Yankee soldiers hang- 
ing around to watch him. And Lincoln has ordered no 
exchange of prisoners. I'm afraid it would not do any 
good for you to go. They would hardlv let you see him 
and, too, Captain Summers has so definitely ordered that 
we—" 

She turned away quickly. Joppy stood beside her and 
she snatched the bonnet and wrap from him. 

"Captain Summers!" she cried. "What do I care for 

—31— 



Captain Summers and his orders? What do I care for 
the Confederacy? That's all I've heard. What do I care 
if it falls to pieces, when your father is lying sick in some 
Yankee prison! Let them try to stop me. Joppy and I are 
going to Nashville." 

I could scarcely picture the Nashville Mother must have 
found. How different from the busy little pre-war city, 
bustling with pride and steaming with activity! Now, as 
Mother hastened through the rain swept streets, the 
houses and offices, the residential and business blocks 
would be empty or partially filled with blue-coated Yan- 
kees. Blank windows would stare insolently out at the 
passing carriage as if resenting its presence in a city of 
phantom memories. The Maxwell House, that was to have 
been the pride of the South, would now only echo the 
laughter that drunken soldiers tossed out from its half 
completed walls. All that the city had once stood for was 
gone. Only empty shells remained to testify that here 
once basked, in the sunshine of the South, a landmark 
of the Confederacy. 

From the time Mother left the hours dragged heavily. 
Captain Summers accepted Mother's absence as unavoid- 
able, though it caused him great alarm. After a few re- 
marks about the importance of his work to the success of 
the Confederate Army, he retired once more to his room, 
relying on the Negroes posted as sentries to warn him of 
the approach of Union troops, whereupon he and his com- 
panion were to retire to the secret chamber in the cellar. 

Later, lying on the sofa, with the house silent except 
for the rain beating on the window panes, I tried to sleep. 
But the burden on my mind and the intense pain in my 
leg gave me no respite, and I could onlv lie still and peer 
into the darkness. I tried to pray as Mother had taught me 
long ago, but the words of each prayer became blurred 
within me and I could remember no particular prayer. I 
thought of Maleen and my love for her. I thought of 
Philissia and her kindness to us. I thought of Cousin Ne- 
vada lying ill upstairs, and of Mother driving through the 
rain to Dad. Yet I could think of no escape from the rush- 
ing whirlpool towards which we were being dragged, 
against which resistance was futile. 

It was well past midnight when I was startled by a 
slight noise that seemed to come from the upper hall at 
the head of the stairs. I listened closely and soon distin- 
guished the faint swish of skirts and tiny footfalls. I knew 
at once it was Maleen. Had I not heard the dainty sound 
of her step countless times? Had I not memorized each 
rustle of her skirts as she passed? But why was she stir- 
ring at this time of night? The fall of each step came dim- 
ly to me as she descended the stairs. Possibly she was lift- 
ing her dress so that she might slip down unnoticed. 

—32— 



Soon, outlined against the far window of the room, 
her silhouette passed me. Even in the dark I could tell she 
wore her bonnet and furs. She was dressed to go out into 
the night. As she turned her head I knew she was looking 
at me, thinking, I supposed, that I was asleep. 

"Maleen," I called softly. 

She was startled. With her skirts lifted in one hand, she 
stopped near the door. I fumbled about and lighted the 
little stump of a candle that stood near. In its feeble glow 
she seemed distant and almost a stranger. But her voice 
was as soothing and beautiful as ever. 

"What is it, Kayel?" 

"Are you leaving?" 

"Please, Kayel, I — " She faltered and lowered her 
eyes. Her dark curls trembled as she stepped backwards. 

"But it is raining and cold outside. You'll catch your 
death of cold. And Captain Summers will be displeased/' 

In an instant she was beside me, her eyes eager and her 
lips quivering as she said : "I shall be back before morn- 
ing. He need never know that I am gone unless — " 

"But," I cried, "suppose he sees you. And you can't get 
by the Yankees this time of night. You know that." 

"I must go." 

"No ! I won't let you. It's too dangerous — the night and 
the Yankees." 

"Nothing will happen. I shall be safe." Tears glistened 
in her eyes. "Oh, Kayel, why must you try to stop me?" 

"Because I love you." 

"If you loved me you would let me go." 

"No." 

"Please! You don't know what you are doing to me. 
Do you think I want to go out into that black rain? It is 
only because I must. I must. Once I asked you to believe 
in me ; said that the war was keeping me from you. Oh, 
Kayel, it still is. Don't make it any harder for me. Let 
me go." 

"What are you hiding from me, Maleen? Let me help 
you. Tell me. It will make no difference. Oh, my darl- 
ing — " 

"I must go now, Kayel." 

"I won't let you go," I said as I grasped her wrists 
and pulled her down beside me. "I can't let you go." 

She stared down at me for a moment and twisted her 
arms to free herself but I only held her the tighter. There 
was fear in her eyes as I took her in my arms. She seemed 
afraid and her lips were cool and unresponsive. My heart 
ached dully as she drew away from me and tried with the 
fingers of one hand to loosen the grip upon the other. 

"You're hurting me." 

I looked into her eyes again and as I did I almost caught 
my breath I was so startled ; for the fear I had seen was 

—33— 



gone and in its stead I beheld a smouldering fire of bit- 
terness. Her gaze went through me, searing me as a flame 
that sweeps through a field of wheat and leaves nothing 
in its wake but charred ashes. 

Her eyes dropped to her free hand and as I followed I 
caught the gleam of a pistol in the light of the candle. It 
pointed at me from a hand that was strong and unwav- 
ering. 

"Turn me loose," she demanded and her voice was as 
cold and relentless as the chilling rains that swept the 
countryside, "or I shall kill you." 

My fingers were powerless to release her arm. For a 
brief moment that seemed an indeterminate lifetime, I 
was stupified. My mind refused to work; my strength was 
gone ; I could not grasp the situation. 

Then suddenly I awakened; awakened to the realiza- 
tion that I had lain sleeping too long. The gleaming muz- 
zle of the pistol wavered before my eyes and as I watched 
the vivid flashes I leaped to the full meaning of what had 
happened. 

In profusion, there arose before me a panorama of lit- 
tle things that pricked my memory — those furs — her 
aloofness and mystery — Mother's bewilderment as she 
gazed on this stranger in our home — Joppy's words. "Ah 
seen Miss Maleen in de garden speakin' to sum men an* 
when Ah come up dey sees me and run off in de dark, an' 
Miss Maleen, she 'tends she was out walkin' but Ah knows 
diffunt"— a room in the dim light of a dying: fire and 
other words : "I'm frightened . . . the war . . . it's holding 
me ... I can never marry you" — long periods of absence 
— her distress at being snowbound — and always that aw- 
ful fear in her lovely eyes. Now there were other things — 
Maleen stealing down the stairs — "I must go" — "I can't 
tell you" — and a gleaming pistol behind which were eyes, 
fierce with determination and bitterness. 

Now at last there was the truth — the plain, naked 
truth. Maleen was a Federal spy! How could I have been 
blind for so long? It was so evident. This girl accepted 
the hospitality of our home and rewarded us by betray- 
ing the very cause for which my father had been fighting, 
perhaps dying — betraying from his house the ideal for 
which we stood. And yet — and yet — she was the girl I 
loved. 

"Do you hear me, Kayel? I shall kill you if you do no,t 
turn me loose." 

"Maleen, I love you." 

"I shall kill you." 

"And I know you love me. I have seen it in your eyes. 
You've told me so. Remember?" 

—34— 



The rage had gone from her eyes. Her hand trembled 
as she held the gun. Her voice no more was bitter but 
pleading. "Turn me loose, Kayel. Turn me loose." 

"I shall never turn you loose. You're mine forever." 

The pistol clattered to the floor. She leaned over me and 
touched my lips with the tips of her fingers. In the soft 
yellow radiance of the candle she was more lovely than 
I had ever seen her. Her touch erased from me every hurt 
that I had ever suffered, even her position in my home, 
the detestable things for which she stood, the harm she 
had done my country, all vanished beneath the magic of 
her finger tips. 

"But," I cried, "we can forget the past. We can build 
our love on these very ruins." 

She shook her head slowly. A tear rolled down her 
cheek and splashed onto my hand. She looked into my 
eyes, read there the unspoken hopes, and smiled. It was 
a pathetic little smile, touching and piercing my heart. As 
her eyes left mine and saw beyond me, there remained 
for us but a trace of that smile, and it too slowly died on 
her lips. Her hand tightened in mine. 

"I give you my word, Kayel, I shan't leave this house 
tonight." 

Her hand slipped away and she backed slowly from 
me. At the door she turned and whispered, "Good night, 
Kayel." 

I could say nothing for the awful, burning pain in my 
throat. She was right. Our love could never be. We could 
never start life in a broken land — I, who was breaking 
with it, and she, who was breaking it. 

Shortly afterwards, I fell asleep. 

The succeeding days were like a hideous nightmare or 
a grotesque tale from the "Arabian Nights." They were 
days that stretched nerves already taut to the breaking 
point. Mother returned with word that Dad was dying, 
and left almost immediately for Nashville. Cousin Neva- 
da, without doctors or nurses, required Philissia's constant 
nursing. Maleen remained in her room, and although no 
more than a closed door separated us, it might have been 
a range of impenetrable mountains or the depths of the 
sea. A pall of silence and depression, of bitterness and 
heartache, of sickness and death, settled over the house- 
hold. Only Captain Summers, working frantically over 
dispatches in the far bedroom, possessed any semblance 
of normality. It was a house that was still and despairing 
in the bitter March winds. 

But one bleak afternoon the last attachment to the 
olden days was severed and the once fine house could no 
longer offer hospitality to its guests. That day Captain 
Summers and his companion departed in defeat, yet so 
high were their heads and so proud their carriage that I 

—35— 



thought as I watched them ride away between rows of 
Federal troops, that with such men as these serving her, 
the Confederacy could never die, for such memories of 
courage and heroism would perpetuate her name and 
vaunt her glory forever. 

It had happened so quickly, so unexpectedly that it 
was over and done before we realized what was happen- 
ing. A few minutes earlier, Joppy had scurried into the 
house from the fields, screaming the one word that 
wrought terror in so many hearts, "Yankees !" 

Even before the alert Captain could gather his papers, 
a Union officer boldly flung open the front door. Behind 
him countless troops, who quickly and noisily filled the 
lower floor. Heedless of our useless lies, they mounted the 
stairs. A sharp exchange of shots echoed through the still 
house and silence settled down once more. Soon Captain 
Summers descended with his captors, his bleeding hand 
clutched tight against his breast as fragments of charred 
paper that would never reveal their secrets fluttered down 
beside him. As the line of mounted men disappeared be- 
yond the orchard, the rain set in again in a blinding fury 
that blotted out the landscape and retreating figures into 
gray nothingness. 

I was puzzled and confused. Something was wrong. 
Something was missing in the turmoil that encircled us. 
Suddenly I knew what I should have known from the be- 
ginning. Maleen had not rushed down the steps, as had 
Philissia, at the first sound of approaching horsemen. She 
had not stood beside me as the soldiers swept through the 
room. She had not lent her voice to the denials to protect 
the men above. Maleen had not stood at the window to 
watch the last straggling lines of blue die away in the 
rain. She had gone. 

Suddenly the house was so completely empty that I 
longed to cry out simply for the reassuring sound of my 
own voice that would tell me I was not absolutely alone. 
The ache in my heart was so dull at first that I could not 
realize it was there. Life could not go on without Maleen. 
How cold the house would be without the warmth of her 
love ! How still without the sound of her voice. How drab 
without the brilliance of her smile ! Yes, I thought, with 
the muffled sound of the door closing behind her has died 
the last semblance of a life for me that will never know 
happiness. In the echo of footsteps that passed away 
from me, in the swish of hurried skirts had passed away 
my love, my youth, my very life. 

I sat at the window sill, trying vainly to discern the 
outline of the willow through the rain, trying vainly to 
find some outlet for my crushed hopes, endeavoring vain- 
ly to recall her to me. It was useless. She would never 

—36— 



hear my cries, or, hearing them, would only smile at a 
memory that had lasted too long, and would pass on her 
way. 

Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, a hand that 
was firm and warm and strong, perhaps a hand that could 
ease my pain beneath its touch. 

"Won't you eat something, Kayel?" 

I turned at the sound of her voice. In her faith I read 
understanding and sympathy anol love. Philissia, who had 
stood by me always ! 

"Philissia !" I wailed, and her eyes were filled with 
tears. "Philissia!" 

My head was on her breast and feeling its comfort and 
protection, I sobbed like a child. 

"Oh, Kayel," she whispered, "I want to help you." 

I raised my eyes to hers. "But," I answered, "there's 
nothing left to help. It's gone, everything is gone — Mother 
and Dad, the Confederacy and our home, the land and 
Maleen." 

"No, no. It's not all gone. Your Mother will soon return 
and your father will be well. Look out the window. See 
the rain? That means it's spring and your land is there- 
damaged, but still as good as when it raised cotton and 
tobacco. You're young and wise and strong. Oh, can't 
you see? Very little is gone — except yesterday. The past 
is over. There is only tomorrow for us. You've so much 
left. And," her voice was soft and low, "I shall always 
be here, waiting for you to need me." 

It was spring and in the distance through the last drops 
of rain, a rainbow stood across the river. I saw the miles 
of rich earth waiting for the plow and the seed that would 
make it produce once more. Now I could see the willow 
tree plainly and the tiny new leaves. A robin chirped on 
its dripping boughs. I saw indeed that there was so much 
left for the endless tomorrows. 

Slowly I rose, clinging to her arm for support, and to- 
gether we crossed to the door. The air was clean and 
sweet and good and the moistened earth would yield once 
more. 

"I need you now, Philissia," I said, wiping away my 
tears with her finger tips. "And, oh, my darling, I'll need 
you always." 



—37— 



William Butler Yeats 



9 John Mechem 



TO understand poetry, and especially that ultimately 
subjective work, romantic poetry, we must probe the 
thoughts of the poet, where lies the impetus, the spur- 
ring on to lyrical expression. In the answer to "What is 
the poet?" lies the answer to "What is the poetry?" In 
the case of William Butler Yeats this method seems excep- 
tionally fitting. Much criticism has been heaped on the 
man for his obscurantism, for over-subtle symbolism, for 
theories understandable only to himself. In the study of 
Yeats' character and environment, if anywhere, will be 
found the solution to these perplexities. "Yeats never 
loses his personality in his work," says J. J. Hogan, "and 
the reader can never forget the poet and be rapt out of 
time and place. W. B. Yeats is always by and in his pose 
whether it be or be not a fine and true one." 1 Since it is 
Yeats' wont to shift his pose rather often, at times with 
an appalling unconcern for intelligence or good sense as 
in the case of the Rosicrucians it becomes all the more 
necessary that we evaluate the poet's life, his motives, 
and thereby form some conclusion on his work, weeding 
out and classifying. 

Yeats' background was Ireland, and in a lesser way 
England and France. Ireland and the Irish cause were his 
first love ; England interested him mainly for connections 
with writers, mystical and aesthetic, both contemporary 
and of former times. France and the continent, for some 
peculiar reason, brought out the worst in Yeats. It was 
in France that he had the peculiar experience with the 
Rosicrucians; it was from the French symbolists that he 
learned that floridness and artificial symbolism from 
which he later revolted. 

It was in County Sligo that Yeats was born and lived 
much of the time of his childhood and youth. Here were 
formed first the simple mysticism, the interest in the pro- 
vincial peasant, and his folk and fairy lore; here too 
Yeats was steeped in the tradition, superstition, and con- 



iHogan, "W. B. Yeats," Studies, March, 1939, p. 40. 

2Krans, William Butler Yeats and the Irish Literary Revival, 
quotes an incident from The Celtic Twilight as a typical in- 
stance: "By the cross of Jesus! how shall I go? If I pass by the 
hill of Dunboy old Captain Burney may look out on me. If I 
go round by the water, and up the steps, there is the headless 
one, and another on the quays, and a new one under the old 
churchyard wall. If I go round the other way, Mrs. Stewart is 
appearing at the Hillside Gate, and the devil himself is in the 
hospital lane." 

—38— 



cern for the visible supernatural. 2 This was the inspiration 
for his first two volumes of poems, Crossways and The 
Rose. It is in these collections that Yeats expresses a long- 
ing to "be gone . . . where daffodil and lily wave," 3 or 
again, "to the waters and the wild with a faery, hand in 
hand." 4 Here also we find those pictures of simple Irish 
life, rustic vignettes ; there is something universally touch- 
ing in the sight of the poor old crone, Moll Magee, beg- 
ging the heartless children not to stone her, but just to 
come and "gather with your shining looks," 5 that she 
might have a little sunshine in the darkness of her trag- 
edy. These are the two types of Yeats' early work: the 
one, mystic and dreamy, through which seeps a sadness 
that comes slowly because it is so old. The other, simple 
in detail, lowly in theme and a sympathy that proceeds 
with natural restraint. 

But at the time Yeats was being steeped in Irish lore, 
he was also coming in contact with England's tradition. 
Early in life he became acquainted with English literature 
and eventually absorbed a rather thorough knowledge 
of it. He went to school in England and later came in 
contact with the Pre-Raphaelites and through them dis- 
covered Verlaine and the French symbolists. This con- 
fluence of the two streams of customs had three important 
effects on Yeats : first, a revolt against materialism, whe- 
ther Huxley's practical Puritanical creed, or Zola's loath- 
some digging in the human dung pile ; second, a roman- 
tic escape into a dream world, where he walked with 
creatures of the wood and where he sought eternal beauty 
by "many a Danaan shore, where Time would surely for- 
get us, and Sorrow come near us no more" ; 6 third, an in- 
tense patriotism arising partly from his youthful ties and 
partly because Ireland was the jumping-off place and the 
sanctuary of his unreality. 

This patriotism produced many positive results. The 
first among them was Yeats' desire to present to the world 
the heritage of legend and customs that was Ireland's. 
It led him to form in conjunction with other Irish writers 
of note the Irish Literary Theatre Society. This was a 
cause for which Yeats crusaded all of his life. At first 
there was the battle to eliminate sentimentality and mel- 
odrama from the stage, and to make it a place where ideas 
were to be brought forth, expounded, and considered. 
Yeats' themes were primarily Irish legend, but the pres- 
sure of the war years and the revolution grew, and he 
brought much to incite the zeal of the Irish for their coun- 
try. It was primarily through his leadership in the Irish 



3Yeats, Collected Poems, p. 
4lbid., p. 21. 
5lbid., p. 28. 
6lbid., p. 47. 



—39- 



theatre that he had so great an influence on the new 
writers, Irish and otherwise, that were coming to maturi- 
ty in his day. 

Aodh de Blacah claims that Yeats' plays were, no 
doubt, his best writings. 7 Personally, I do not agree with 
him, for they rely too heavily not on particular circum- 
stances but on particular mentalities, minds that are 
steeped in the spirit of Irish folklore. One cannot deny 
the f orcef ulness of certain passages, as for instance Oisin's 
concluding defiance of Patrick: 

It were sad to gaze on the blessed and no man I loved of 

old there; 

I throw down the chain of small stones! When life in my 

body has ceased, 

I will go to Caoilte, and Conan, and Bran, Sceolan, Lomair, 

And dwell in the house of the Fenians, be they in flames or 

at feast.8 

And again no one can overlook the thoroughly Irish 
character of many of his lyrics. There is the much dis- 
puted passage beginning: "Do you not hear me calling, 
white deer with no horns?" 9 The tempest concerning the 
meaning of the symbolism has now subsided. Whether or 
not the symbolism of this particular poem and others like 
it is commendable, two things should be kept in mind: 
first, that the lyrics by their very brevity can be much 
more easily dealt with than the dramas and dramatic 
narratives, and while the lyric must be constricted to one 
moment, one word, the drama by dealing with the whole 
character, or the complete phase of a certain trend of 
thought must necessarily bring in a great deal more. The 
second consideration is that Yeats' poems are not by any 
means entirely dominated by the Irish fancy. Even among 
his early works we find such simple, clear-cut expressions 
as this pleasant lullaby: 

The angels are stooping 

Above your bed; 
They weary of trooping 

With the whimpering dead. 

God's laughing in Heaven 

To see you so good; 
The Sailing Seven 

Are gay in His mood. 

I sigh that kiss you, 

For I must own 
That I shall miss you 

When you have grown. 10 

The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner. The Host of the 



7de Blacam, "Yeats As I Knew Him," The Irish Monthly, March, 
SYeats, op cit., p. 363. 
9lbid., p. 68. 
lOlbid., p. 45. 

—40— 



Air, The Song of the Old Mother beautifully illustrate 
this point. The ultimate value of his plays yet remains to 
be decided, I believe, but no one can underestimate the 
effects that the Irish theatre had on Yeats' character. 

For it was through this movement that Yeats was 
brought face to face with reality — a reality from which 
he could not flee into his introspective Eden. The first dec- 
ades of this century found Yeats no longer the happy 
dreamy-sad youth. Maturity had brought with it respon- 
sibilities. There is a tantalizing proposition in the idea 
of the Yeats of the twentieth century being Shelley and 
Keats grown old. Both of these died before reaching their 
thirtieth year. All three went questing after "the sweet 
far thing." But Yeats alone of the three was left to Age, 
and he repudiated it. Several things combined to make 
this former solace now a source of ennui. Yeats, much like 
Shelley, had sought his beauty through love ; not mortal 
love alone, but through mortal love, he thought, would be 
the key to everlasting love and beauty. Gradually he tired 
of youthful passionateness and aging seeks something dif- 
ferent. Compare: 

Down by the sally gardens my love and I did meet; 

She bid me take life easy, as grass grows on the weirs; 
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears. 12 

with its pleasant emotion and easy sorrow with the fol- 
lowing fatigued and exasperated utterance: 

Were you but lying cold and dead 

And lights were paling out of the West, 

You would come hither and bend your head, 
And I would lay my head on your breast; 
And you would murmur tender words, 
Forgiving me because you were dead: 
Nor would you rise and hasten away . . . 13 

The outworn joys of youth and the responsibilities of 
maturity forced Yeats to come to terms with the world. 
He could not, however, be ever pleased with mere ma- 
terialism; he sought much more, and the tragic part is 
that he found so little. From about 1910 on, when he pub- 
lished The Green Helmet and Other Poems, Yeats pro- 
gressed from the breezy, aristocratic didacticism and 
"outdoorness" of the eighteenth century Tories to the 
somewhat cynical courteousness of the man of the world 
to a spiteful old age at the end of which he veered back 
but never absolutely returned to the Ireland which he 
once knew. 

iilbid., p. 43. 
i2lbid., pp. 23, 24. 
I3|bid., p. 82. 

-41— 



All these changes proceeded successively. The first and 
by far the most abrupt was his change of style; hence- 
forth, he had cast aside a singing cloak "covered with 
embroideries out of old mythologies . . . for there's more 
enterprise in walking naked." 14 We can appreciate the 
greatness of the difference by comparing the work shown 
In the Seven Woods, published in 1904, with his poems 
put out six years later in the Green Helmet. What a world 
of difference lies between "I cried when the moon was 
murmuring to the birds" 15 and 

Though leaves are many, the root is one; 

Through all the lying days of my youth 
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun; 

Now I may wither into truth. 16 

Here the whole thought is crushed into four lines ; what- 
ever loss may be had in melody and freedom, there arises 
an infinite advantage for effect. From now on Yeats is 
concerned less and less with folklore, and where he does 
employ it, it is more than likely that it is used not for the 
sake of itself but the better to illustrate the writer's moods 
or feelings. In Responsibilities and The Wild Swans at 
Coole Yeats is concerned with a variety of subjects; some- 
times they are reflections and memories of love. Here his 
position is that of the onlooker, one who could no longer 
play at the game of youth. The entire viewpoint is ex- 
pressed in: 

I bade, because the wick and oil are spent 
And frozen are the channels of the blood, 
My discontented heart to draw content 
From beauty that is cast out of a mould 
In bronze . . . O heart, we are old; 
The living beauty is for younger men: 
We cannot pay its tribute of wild tears.17 

At other times they are invectives against the "Philis- 
tines," as when he bade the wealthy man who offered to 
donate a fund for pictures, if the people wanted them, go 
have a look at Duke Ercole and other Renaissance pa- 
trons who "sent no runners to and fro" to "learn the shep- 
herds' will." 18 A number of his poems are thoughts on the 
theater and its playwrights. His most natural work in this 
period, however, deals with realistic country scenes or 
stirring memorials of his friends, who, as the years go on, 
become fewer and fewer. There is a certain refreshment 
in the positivism of these that stands out against the back- 
ground of a doubting mind which seems to be losing, 

I4|bid., p. 145. 
I5lbid., p. 89. 
I6lbid., p. 107. 
i7lbid., p. 158. 
isibid., p. 122. 

—42— 



slowly perhaps, but nonetheless assuredly. It is as if Yeats 
had suddenly opened his casement, and the wind blew in 
and dispersed the choking fog of doubt to let us find our- 
selves on the dry land of reality. His memorials are in a 
more sober vein, but still seem free from such meaningless 
mysticism as the following: 

In vain, in vain; the cataract still cries; 

The everlasting taper lights the gloom; 
All wisdom shut into his onyx eyes, 

Our Father Rosicross sleeps in his tomb. 

In An Irish Airman Foresees His Death everything that 
is best in Yeats came out. Such lines as these need no 
comment : 

Nor law nor duty bade me fight, 

Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, 

A lonely impulse of delight 

Drive to this tumult in the clouds . . . 19 

In Memory of Major Robert Gregory represents Yeats 
emancipated from everything Irish, everything symboli- 
cal and without morbidness, yet it loses nothing by this, 
and to my mind it is a better showing of the Irish people 
than all of Yeats' dramas. It may not, it is true, show any 
thing of the Irish feeling, but it does let us know that 
after all the Irish are members of the human race. This 
elegy is ludicrously brief when compared with the work 
of the great Victorian, but how much more thought and 
feeling is packed into this one line : "What made us dream 
that he could comb grey hair?" 20 than in fifty well-turned 
quatrains of In Memorian. To me, if Yeats had never 
written another verse this poem would be sufficient to 
place him in the category of those to be remembered. 

I have already said that Yeat's new style did not alienate 
him from the Irish tradition. But what did estrange him 
were some ideas that occupied his mind in the last two 
decades. These ideas are popularly known as his philoso- 
phy of life; the terminology is more than complimentary. 
Yeats as he was leaving middle age grew more and more 
concerned with his creed, or to put it more accurately, 
his lack of it. The seeds were sown in his early years. 
Yeats could not stand science or materialism, and yet he 
has no notion whatsoever of metaphysics. He made no 
attempt to prove his ideas, because he thought the scien- 
tific method not only unnecessary but actually loathsome. 
Generally speaking, the principal factors were reincar- 
nation (how this is to be accomplished is never made 
definite) and cyclic phases of human conduct and events 
which are mathematically described in terms of the 

I9lbid., p. 154. 
20|bid., p. 153. 

—43— 



phases of the moon. Gyres and cones, primary and antithe- 
tical phases occur frequently in his exposition. At best, 
we may say that they are symbolical reflections in Yeats' 
mind of his imagination. Yeats made no pretense as to 
any objective foundation of his "religion, " rather it is a 
sort of last bulwark that he has thrown up against his 
critical audiences and his own rationality. Cleanth 
Brooks has adequately summed it up: 

Yeats as we have seen apparently has no objection himself 
to referring to his system as a myth, but we are to remem- 
ber that in calling it this, he is not admitting that it is 
trivial, or merely fanciful, or "untrue." And this is doubt- 
less why Yeats, in answering the question of whether or 
not he believes in his system, can only reply with a coun j 
ter question as to whether the word "belief," as the 
questioner will use it, belongs to our age. For the myth 
is not scientifically true, and yet though a fiction, though 
a symbolical representation, intermeshes with reality. It 
is imaginatively true, and if most people will take this to 
mean that it is after all trivial, this merely shows in what 
respect our age holds the imagination. 21 

One can see that as Yeats evolved this "whirlpool philos- 
ophy, he was genuinely fascinated by its terminology. In 
this last three books, Michael Robartes and the Dancer, 
The Tower, and The Winding Stair and Other Poems, we 
often find such phrases as "turning in the widening 
gyre," 22 "now gyring and perning there," 23 and "perne 
in a gyre." 24 The well-known Sailing to Byzantium, Mi- 
chael Robartes and the Dancer, The Second Coming, Two 
Songs from a Play, A Dialogue of Self and Soul, and By- 
zantium are all poetical utterances of Yeats' theory. In 
general, they represent his revolt against the infirmities 
of age, pessimistic chagrin at the uselessness of all man's 
activities, and futile hope that perhaps he may sometime, 
somewhere see the vision of unalloyed beauty. There is 
real melody in these lines: 

Astraddle on the dolphin's mire and blood, 

Spirit after spirit! The smithies break the flood, 

The golden smithies of the Emperor! 

Marbles of the dancing floor 

Break bitter furies of complexity, 

Those images that yet 

Fresh images beget, 

That dolphin-turn, that gong-tormented sea.25 

But whether or not they can possibly convey any thread 
of meaning to "unenlightened intelligence ,, is much to be 



2iBrooks, "The Vision of William Butler Yeats," The Southern Re- 
view, Summer, 1938, p. 142. 
22Yeats, op. cit., p. 215. 
23|fc>id., p. 214. 
24|bid., p. 223. 
25|bid. p. 286. 

—44— 



disputed. There is certainly no help to be obtained from 
Irish myth and Irish fancy, nor can we find any real clue 
in the French symbolists; Yeats has gone off the deep end 
of his consciousness, and it is impossible to waylay him 
at any objective point. 

The Tower, to my mind, is among the few better ex- 
pressions of his past years. It is a panoramic survey of 
Yeats' life in the period of this century — a beautiful sum- 
mation of one man's tragedy. From the beginning where 
he utters this impassioned despair: 

What shall I do with this absurdity — 
O heart, O troubled heart — this caricature, 
Decrepit age that has been tied to me 

As to a dog's tail?26 

Yeats goes on to ask first the aristocrats, then the beg- 
gars, the misers, and finally all the old Irish heroes, known 
or nameless, if they so did, and seems to justify himself 
that his misery is accompanied. His mood changes, and 
in concluding he remarks, "It is time that I wrote my 
mill." 27 First he wills his pride, which is inherited from 
the landed gentry who "gave though free to refuse"; 28 
it is a quality, we may take it, that distinguished that class 
in their actions and in their speech from just people. 
Yeats' aloofness was famed ; it arose quite naturally from 
his preoccupation with himself and a characteristic sense 
of being separated from everyone else by a gulf that 
widened as he aged. Then Yeats leaves his faith ; it is his 
creed of the beautiful, 

. . . learned Italian things 
And the proud stones of Greece 
Poet's imaginings 
And memories of love, 
Memories of the words of women ... 29 

and his defiance of science and objective truth as naught 
but the product of man's own mind, "made lock, stock, 
and barrel out of his bitter soul." 30 These two things are 
all that Yeats has to offer to those who shall come after ; 
in the last analysis, this is all that life has taught Yeats : 
live proudly and seek only what is beautiful. But even 
these things will be deprived of you by age, as it has him, 
and as you wither and decay you will gradually settle 
into nothing; so that the end shall be but as "a sleepy 
bird's cry among the deepening shades." 31 

26|bid., p. 224. 
27lbid., p. 228. 
28lbid., p. 229. 
29|bid., loc. cit. 
soibid., loc. cit. 
Bilbid., p. 231. 

—45— 



We are as yet too close to make a valid decision on 
Yeats' later poetry; however, whatever judgment pos- 
terity may place upon it, there is no doubt, as has been 
indicated, that the work of his youth and maturity is of 
permanent significance. The object of this paper has been 
to search out the underlying connection between The Song 
of the Happy Shepherd (early period,) Responsibilities 
(middle period), and Byzantium (representative of his 
latest work) . The answer clearly can only be found in the 
delineation and history of his personality. Yeats, the man 
is the gradual story of one gone completely astray in a 
land of bewildering doubt. It might be said that Yeats 
was killed in his youth, when, as he described, he was 
deprived of his religion by Huxley and Tyndall. 32 Here, 
behind the winsome song and quickened zeal for Ire- 
land's cause, lay the seeds that grew as rank weeds first 
to check the lightheartedness and bring him to reality — 
thus far an improvement — but then to uncertainty and 
disbelief: first of Ireland and its people, then of all life, 
and finally and most pitifully of himself; driven on, he 
clutches at the floating pieces of his frail craft : aesthetics, 
or faith in tradition or theosophy; nothing will sate his 
morbid appetite for faith, and his bitterness increases as 
he drains the cup of distrust. This insight into the man 
allows one to perceive the ultimate coherence of his work : 
first light, magical, youthfully exuberant; then succinct, 
clear, and balanced; finally obscure, bitter, utterly sub- 
jective — at times unknowable. 



32Brooks, op. cit., p. 117. 



—46— 



i 



Mediaeval Institutions 



• Frank W. Julsen 



FOLKLAND AND BOOKLAND 

THE question of folkland and bookland, early Anglo- 
Saxon systems of land tenure, had long plagued mod- 
ern scholars as to the precise meaning of the two. It 
remained to the Anglicized Russian scholar Vinogradoff 
to formulate definitions that are today generally accepted 
by modern authorities. 



Private ownership of land as such did not seem to 
exist in the beginning. Forests, pasture lands, bogs and 
heaths remained the collective property of the members 
of the village community, who possessed over these com- 
mon lands' equal rights of usage. Annually plots of 
ground were distributed among the townsfolk for culti- 
vation. Once the crops were harvested, these fields were 
used as common pastures for the grazing of cattle owned 
by all the families. In time, these divisions became per- 
manent, and were designated as units: the Anglo-Saxon 
"hide" which corresponded to one hundred and twenty 
acres, and the "virgate" which represented thirty acres. 
Thus, besides household goods, cattle, and other chattels, 
family property came to include land also. This land own- 
ership was increased by the reclamation of wastelands 
through the labors of pioneers and by the acquisition of 
grants of land made by the king. 

English lands, prior to the Norman Conquest, were di- 
vided into two general groups: Folkland and Bookland. 

Folkland (folc, the people; land, land), an earlier form 
of land tenure than bookland, has now 1 been generally 
accepted as the ownership or holding of land by folkright. 
There was no written title to prove formally the right of 
ownership, but men relied on the common knowledge of 
the village to uphold all claims of possession. Disputes 
involving rightful claims of ownership were settled in 
the shire or hundred court of the particular section. 

Adams, referring to its transfer, says : 

Folkland could not be inherited by will, its inheritance 
was determined by the custom, and it could not be alienated 
without the consent of the folk directly interested, unless it 



lVinogradoff advanced this theory in 1893 (cf. English Historical Re- 
view, VIII, 1) and most modern authorities accept it. 

—47— 



were land which the individual had acquired during his own 
lifetime and not a part of that which he had inherited. 2 

Although folkland was not easily alienated, it could 
be leased out (as could bookland) for a limited period of 
time to free men, ordinarily for the duration of the lives 
of three successive holders. After this period of rental, 
the land automatically reverted to the donor or leasor. 
When leased in this manner, folkland (and bookland) 
was termed "loenland," that is, land lent or rented. 

Besides the accepted theory of Vinogradoff, there is 
the theory set forth by Allen, which was followed by 
Stubbs and Kemble. According to this theory, folkland 
was the common property of the people as a whole. The 
king, however, had the right to give to his followers large 
tracts of land, in a manner similar to the continental 
"beneficia." Yet these grants remained subject to the 
king and to the people, the former having the right to 
recall the land. In any event the heir of a donee of folk- 
land had to be confirmed in its possession by the king. 

That there exists much conjecture regarding the real 
meaning of folkland lies in the fact that the term is men- 
tioned but three times in the extant documents of the 
period, namely, in one law and in two charters. 

In the law of Edward the Elder folkland is contrasted 
with bookland. It is further indicated that these two kinds 
of tenure form the main subdivisions of land ownership. 
Maitland observes that "possibly this law tells us that 
while a dispute about folkland will, a dispute about book- 
land will not, come before the shiremoot. 3 

In the first of the two charters, that of Ethelbert of 
Kent, 4 dated 858, he exchanged with his thegn Wulflaf 
five ploughlands at Washingwell for some land at Mar- 
sham, granting the thegn exemption from all fiscal bur- 
dens except the trinoda necessitas. Evidently, folkland 
was not free from the payment of a land tax, in direct 
contrast with bookland. 

The second document, the will of Ealderman Alfred, 
is thought to have been written late in the ninth century. 
The Ealderman bequeathed more than a hundred hides 
of land to his wife and the remainder to his daughter, 
"our common bairn." In a later clause a son is mentioned, 
but it seems as though this offspring were illegitimate, 5 
inasmuch as he is referred to as "my son" and as he is 
bequeathed only a small fraction of land: 



2Adams, G., Constitutional History of England (New York, 1931), p. 40. 
3Maitland, F., Doomsday Book and Beyond (Cambridge, 1921), p. 244. 
4lbid., p. 245. 

5His daughter is mentioned as "our common bairn," which indicates 
that she was not merely his offspring, but his wife's also. 

—48— 



I give to my son Aethelwald three hides of bookland: two 
hides on Waddon, and one at Gatton, and therewith 100 swine, 
and, if the king will grant him the folkland with the bookland, 
then let him have and enjoy it; but if this may not be, then 
let her grant to him whichever she will, either the land at 
Horsley or the land at Lingfield. 

This stipulation suggests that perhaps a man's folkland 
does not descend to his heir. But again it may mean that 
the Ealderman did not feel called upon to do as much 
for his son because of his illegitimacy, although Alfred 
expressed the hope that the king as supreme judge would 
rule the son legitimate, thus enabling him to inherit the 
folkland. 

This scanty evidence accounts for the vagueness sur- 
rounding the meaning of folkland. 

Bookland (boc, charter or book; land, land), the other 
Anglo-Saxon system of land tenure, was the land held 
by a written title, 6 either a landbook or a charter, created 
by a royal grant with the consent of the witan. These 
grants were usually made to churches, monasteries, and 
noblemen. Frequently, land held under such royal char- 
ter was free from fiscal burdens, except the trinoda neces- 
sitas, and occasionally the donee was accorded rights 
of local lordship and jurisdiction. There is evidence that 
the land reverted to the owner after the extinction of the 
holder's line. 

Maitland summarizes the origin, or source, of book- 
land: 

The holder of folkland is a free landowner, though at an 
early date the king discovers that over him and his land there 
exists an alienable superiority. Partly by alienations of this 
superiority, partly perhaps by gifts of land which the king 
himself is the owner, bookland is created. 

In other words, land separated from folkland was 
called bookland. 



THE MARK SYSTEM 

In mediaeval Germany there was a system of land ten- 
ure known as the "mark," under which all property was 
collective. It consisted not only of meadows and arable 
lands, but also wastes, marshes, pasture lands and for- 
ests. The land belonged to the community of free men, 
who possessed equal rights of usage and temporary occu- 
pation of it, as well as exercising collective rights of ad- 
ministration and jurisdiction over it. The arable lands 

6"Its management and qualities are derived from the charter creating 
it. Thus, every bookland tenure might differ from others in respect 
to heritability and alienability." — Encyclopedia Americana. 

—49— 



were divided into long strips, "gewanne," used for winter 
seed, spring seed and fallow, and were distributed peri- 
odically among the families. After the hay had been har- 
vested, the cattle of the members of the mark were turned 
into the meadows to graze. 7 

Between "village communities" and "mark commun- 
ities" there was a distinction. In the opinion of scholars, 
a village community comprised the group living in a vil- 
lage near or in the middle of the holdings, whereas a 
mark community was made up of a group spread over 
several miles of land, each family living apart. 

Not sufficient evidence supports the theory that the 
mark system existed in England. In Domesday Book 8 
there is recorded a tract of land in Suffolk which was "the 
common pasture for all men of the hundred of Coleness." 9 
This and similar examples are advanced to show that 
there may have been a mark system. But it is obvious 
that land of this nature was vulnerable to the assertion 
of royal ownership, thereby making it dubious whether 
the mark system ever secured a foothold in England. 



THE MANOR 

The manor or manerium suggests a "house" or "hall" 
from which taxes were collected. But a typical manor is 
not easily arrived at. It might have been a small plot of 
land without a house, or it might consist of many acres 
of land with several large houses. 10 The manor, a unit 
in the economic organization of the kingdom, was a source 
of income and was taxed by the king. Tenants living on 
manorial land held their portions by a variety of services 
and payments in kind to the lord of the manor. The land 
itself v/as divided into the lord's land and that of the free 
and servile dwellers on the manor. The fields of the manor 
had to be cultivated, its forests hewn down, its herds 
tended, its buildings kept in repair by the villein or serf 
who labored for the lord as well as for himself. To the 
king the lord of the manor owed certain obligations, such 
as personal military service, taxes, men and arms in case 
of war, and lodging when the king traveled. 

Whereas the mark theory can scarcely be considered 
as a preceptor, or even as a contemporary, of bookland 
and folkland, the manorial estates, from the evidence at 
hand, grew out of the royal grants of bookland. These 



7Boissonade, P., Life and Work in Medieval Europe (New York, 1927), 

p. 10. 
8ii, 339b. 
9. . . pastura communis omnibus hominibus de htmdredt . . . de Cole- 

ness. 
loOne bishop of Langres possessed a whole county. 

—50— 



grants, which tended to convey the possession of the land, 
practically the only source of wealth, from collective 
groups to individuals, favored more those who enjoyed 
political and social power. Kings increased their holdings 
by taking over disinherited lands, one-third of all plun- 
der and tribal lands and by conquest, judicial sentences 
and the partial seizure of the lands of the village com- 
munities. Great Church estates were gradually extended 
out of the munificence of the upper, even lower, classes 
and by means of reclamation and agricultural coloniza- 
tion. Combining usurpation at the expense of communal 
property, aggression against small landowners, pressure 
on kings and colonization and by robbing short-sighted 
rulers of States, the lay aristocracy developed a conse- 
quential territorial power. In England the nobility 11 so 
successfully fabricated rich manors that in the eleventh 
century two-thirds of England was in the hands of a few 
powerful families. 



liThanes, earls and ealdormen. 



-51— 



Spring HtU (^uarierhj 



Editor-in-chief 
G. STOCKMAN O'ROURKE, '39 

Managing Editor Business Manager 

JACK T. HALLADAY, '39 ACTRY D. GREER, '40 

Associate Editors 
John L. Bacon, '40 Edward Balthrop, '40 F. Taylor Peck, '41 

Alfred O. Lambeau, '39 Caldwell T. Delaney, '41 David J. Loveman, '42 

Contributing Editors 

Paul V. Byrne, '39 Frank B. Rauch, '41 Edward W. Leslie, '39 

Thomas F. Sweeney, '39 John De Ornellas, '42 



Exchange Editor 
John L. Mechem, '41 



Circulation Manager 
Redmond J. Reilly, '40 



TO THE CLASS OF '39 

This final double issue of the Spring 
Hill Quarterly appears at a time when 
the half happy, half sad memories of 
Commencement Day are still uppermost 
in the minds of all those connected with 
the dear alma mater and especially in the 
minds of the graduating class. To the 
latter, the Quarterly extends a hand of 
congratulation, well wishes, and fond fare- 
well. 

Although in these present days the 
sweet sorrow of departure may weigh 
heavily upon your spirits, Class of '39, 
there is one particular thought which 
should raise them and inspire them. As 
you leave Spring Hill, perhaps never to 
return for many a long day, there re- 
mains between you and the college a bond 
of common aspirations, ideals, loyalty. 

This bond, strengthened and perfected 
by four years of common activities and 
close association, will not only link you 
forever with the future destiny of your 
alma mater, but it will act as a common 
tie between each and every graduate so 
that no matter how far time and space 
may separate you, never will you grow 
far apart in spirit. The magic name of 
Spring Hill will be as a rallying cry for 
the men from the college on the Hill. 

However, you should not only be linked 
in the intangible bond of fellowship, but 
also in the practical bond of common ac- 
tion. Every move which seeks to advance 
the welfare of Spring Hill and the things 
she stands for should have your enthus- 
iastic support. Every move in the oppo- 
site direction should be opposed by a 
solid phalanx of Spring Hill men. More- 
over, you should make common cause 
with men of similar ideals; and, in united 
efforts, foster those principles that are 



dear to Spring Hill College and to Spring 
Hill men. 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

As the present editors of this publica- 
tion bring to a close their period of office, 
they are filled with a realization of the 
weaknesses and inadequacies of their 
efforts more than with the natural sense 
of satisfaction that comes from having 
played some small part in fashioning a 
magazine worthy of the name Spring Hill 
Quarterly. 

For these weaknesses and inadequacies, 
we can only plead the excuse of inexper- 
ience owing to the fact that this is the 
first magazine of this type ever published 
at Spring Hill. Even here we feel that we 
have failed to profit as much as we should 
by the able guidance of our faculty mod- 
erator. The few feeble forward steps that 
we have taken in the right direction we 
owe to this guidance. 

For the future we have great hopes. 
This is not a hope based on fond phan- 
tasms but on sound reality. For one thing, 
we leave behind a nucleus of talented 
staff members and contributors. For an- 
other, we leave behind a loyal group of 
readers and friends who are zealous for 
the success of the Quarterly. For these 
and other reasons, we hope to see a much 
improved magazine next year and during 
the years to follow. 

As we bid farewell to our friends, the 
editors make a final and urgent plea to 
them. Do not let the Spring Hill Quarter- 
ly die! Whatever its defects, it contains 
the germ of something extremely worth- 
while to Spring Hill and her students. The 
first and most difficult step has been ta- 
ken. Do not hesitate to press onward! 



—52— 



ANTI-SEMITISM 

Long before the destruction of Jerusa- 
lem and the dispersal of the populace, the 
Jews were regarded with undisguised 
contempt by their Roman conquerors and 
neighbors; an attitude that changed but 
little with the advent of Christianity, 
since Christian peoples were inclined 
more to scorn and injure the Jews than 
they were to apply the Christian princi- 
ples of compassion and love. The practice 
of pilloring the Jews has not ceased in 
modern times with its fresh antagonism 
and racial hatreds. 

In support of anti-Semitism innumera- 
ble arguments, drawn from cultural, eco- 
nomic, political, religious and racial 
sources, have been advanced, though none 
of them long withstand the probing light 
of reason. It has been alleged that the 
Jews in modren States are an alien race, 
staunchly and covertly united by ties of 
blood and religion, and wholly out of sym- 
pathy with the national ideals of their 
adopted land. Moreover, the power they 
wield is far out of proportion to their 
numbers. 

Unquestionably the Jew appears to fuse 
slowly with other cultural groups, though 
often enough the fault is not his, for too 
frequently his neighbors look upon him 
with suspicion if not with outright hos- 
tility and literally shun him. But to his 
credit he has become a national of what- 
ever nation has given him shelter. His is 
no anti-race whose racial characteristics 
cannot be obliterated, for to attribute 
that to the Jew is to exaggerate national- 
ism and exalt the racial pride. 

Too often we forget that all Jews are 
not alike. Just as there are good and bad 
Catholics and Protestants, so there are 
good and bad Jews. An entire group can- 
not be castigated for the evil done by 
certain individuals within the group; it 
would be an injustice. Of the fifteen mil- 
lion Jews in the universe most of them 
are still faithful to their religious tradi- 
tions. But there is another group who, as 
freethinkers and atheists, are akin to the 
former only by ties of race. These are 
the Jews whose phenomenal organizing 
and mental abilities and control of capi- 
tal are a distinct menace to Christian civ- 
ilization. These are the Jews among whom 
are those who by embracing Communism 
are infecting with discontent the poor 
and unemployed in our great cities and 
propagating class revolution. These are 
the Jews among whom are numbered the 
nternational bankers and capitalists 
whose power sways governments to their 
selfish bidding. 

The vast majority of Jews are poor 
people. But there exists a small select 
group X'ealthy beyond comparison and 
exerting "untoward power and influence 



by its virtual control of universal capi- 
tal. These Jewish plutocrats in internat- 
ional banking and world-wide investments 
virtually monopolize the output of mines 
and munition works, international news 
services and cables, the furniture and 
clothing industries, cinema and theatri- 
cal enterprises, the tobacco and drug in- 
dustries, commerce and press. Through 
their investments these very wealthy 
Jews have acquired a power out of all 
proportion to their numerical paucity. 

This lopsided power concentrated in the 
hands of a few inevitably leads to popu- 
lar fear and then to opposition and in- 
tense hostility which gradually come not 
without reason, for too often a monied 
class gains control of a government to its 
own class interests. This anti-Semitism 
thus created by the excessive wealth and 
power of a few Jewish plutocrats is pop- 
ularly directed not at the instigators, but 
unreasonably and unjustly at the entire 
Jewish race. 

The evil cannot be cured by legisla- 
ting against the Jewish race or against 
individuals, but rather by measures de- 
signed to curb the abuses; for if indi- 
vidual Jews are deprived of practicing ex- 
tortions, the molding of public opinion to 
their will, and other abuses they will 
merely be replaced by other exploiters 
and profiteers. 

As Christians we must reject anti- 
Semitism as offending justice and char- 
ity. It would be fallacy to conclude that 
because some Irish politicians are cor- 
rupt that all Irishmen are politically cor- 
rupt or because some Italians are gang- 
sters that all Italians are gangsters. Like- 
wise because some Jews are bad, it does 
not follow that all Jews are; and there- 
fore there is no sane reason why all 
Irishmen, all Italians or all Jews should 
be unjustly punished for the failings of 
some of them. It would not be charitable 
because all of us are fundamentally alike 
and redeemed by Christ. It is only nat- 
ural that we should love one another as 
brothers modelled after the image and 
likeness of the same Creator. And hence 
there is no Jew or Gentile, but all sprung 
of the same human race. 

TRAVELING SALESMEN 
IN THE REGAL STYLE 

The recent American visit of the King 
and Queen of England was hailed on both 
sides of the Atlantic as symbolic of the 
community interests and racial brother- 
hood of English-speaking America and 
the British Empire. That cry was loudest 
on the British side, so loud as to sound 
somewhat frantic. Yet even democratic 
America, so notoriously susceptible to 
royalty and pageantry, joined in the cry 
almost as heartily after viewing the gra- 



—53— 



ciousness and good fellowship of their 
Majesties. 

It is worth noting, however, that at the 
same time their Majesties were visiting 
Washington, the first official visit of the 
English since they burnt it in 1814, Nev- 
ille Chamberlain was making less osten- 
tatious and more frank overtures to the 
Soviet Republic. At the same time the 
gracious King and Queen were viewing 
a display of America's aerial might at 
Washington, nervous British military at- 
taches were noting the number and size 
of Hitler's bombers, roaring over Berlin, 
within two hours striking distance of 
Buckingham Palace. At the same time 
her Majesty spoke to Canadian and Amer- 
ican audiences of the "glorious brother- 
hood" of the English-speaking peoples, 
Adolf Hitler warned the Western Euro- 
pean democracies of the perhaps less glo- 
rious but far more sinister brotherhood 
of the Fascist States of Europe. At the 
same time their Majesties reminded us 
of the indissoluble tie between England 
and America, Franco was placing heavy 
guns to bear on Gibraltor, ready to untie 
the British Empire's life-line in the Med- 
iterranean. And almost at the same time 
that their Majesties viewed with grief 
and sympathy the tomb of America's un- 
known soldier of the World War, the 
British Government quietly refused pay- 
ment of another installment of her war 
debt to the United States. 

Americans have always thrilled emo- 
tionally to Nelson's words at Trafalgar, 
"England expects every man to do his 
duty." Today, they might do better to 
think cooly of the implications of a little 
book published recently, whose significant 
title is "England Expects Every Ameri- 
can To Do His Duty." 

COPYRIGHTED FILTH 

A few years ago the Legion of Decen- 
cy was instituted to purge the motion 
picture industry of filth on the silver 
screen. So effective was the campaign 
that the cinema magnates outdid one an- 
other in a frantic effort to bring respect- 
ability to their films, for they came to 
realize, tardily enough, that an aroused 
public opinion makes box office receipts 
slump. 

A new legion of decency has been 
growing steadily for the past year. It is 
a campaign to destroy irreligious and ob- 
scene literature which, under the guise 
of promoting art or physical education, 
or of propagating essential truths, has 
been circulating suggestive and demora- 
lizing matter. That this illicit publishing 
business is a successful and lucrative en- 
terprise is readily apparent from the fact 
that the thirty odd questionable publica- 
tions of ten years ago have been multi- 



plied to more than four hundred and fifty 
with an aggregate monthly circulation in 
excess of fifteen million subscribers. 
Moreover, collusion is indicated among 
the publishers of smut because patrons 
of different concerns have been ap- 
proached by the publishers of other in- 
decent books and photographs and of 
literature definitely atheistic and com- 
munistic. 

This is no myth. It is not an exaggera- 
tion. No man, no matter how strong a 
character, he is, can long resist the occa- 
sion of sin and survive. Suggestive read- 
ing and subtle pictorial reviews blunt 
the conscience and stir the basest pas- 
sions in mankind. Just as germs pene- 
trate and destroy the health of the body 
by engendering contagion and death, so 
do the germs of moral destruction seep 
in and destroy inherent modesty and de- 
votion to chastity with the result that 
lascivious habits of thought and desire 
are stimulated and sooner or later comes 
utter moral destruction. 

The cancer is so widespread that the 
entire fabric of Christian morality is 
gravely endangered. The morality and 
faith of youth, of the family and of so- 
ciety are being broken down and unless 
stern measures are taken to suppress the 
growth of immorality, the moral, social 
and national life of America will be irre- 
parably harmed. And the outcome is al- 
ready evident, for the United States has 
become the world's problem child with 
unchecked murder, contraception, wide- 
spread divorce, sex crimes, venereal dis- 
ease, and infidelities and crimes of all 
kinds. 

To withstand the malicious inroads on 
Christianity a stand must be made. That 
fight has already begun. Free China set 
the counter attack in motion two years 
ago by barring the sale of indecent and 
pornographic literature including the so- 
called American "art" magazines. In the 
United States civic and religious bodies, 
organized on a large scale, are cleansing 
and keeping clean the displays of periodi- 
cals on the newsstands by a strict boy-' 
cott. And one Baptist minister in New 
York has even gone so far as to suggest 
that the sensuous picture magazines and 
filthy stories be confiscated and burned. 

But the fight has only begun. There is 
much to be done. And most of this work 
will have to be done without the assist- 
ance of the law enforcing agencies, for 
the municipal governments of most of 
the American cities are proverbially lax 
in the suppression of vice. Even the pos- 
tal regulations are none too comprehen- 
sive and, while it is true that the federal 
government has removed from the sec- 
ond class privilege some of the more de- 
moralizing magazines, nevertheless too 



—54— 



many extremely harmful and degrading- 
publications manage to stay on the bor- 
derline of interpreted and applied crim- 
inal law. 

We, too, can help eradicate the cheap 
and shady publications that come to our 
knowledge by refusing to purchase them. 
We can insist that vendors remove ob- 
jectionable magazines from display and 
failing this cooperation of the newsdeal- 
ers threat of boycott will bring them to 
reason. Wherever public opinion is pow- 
erless to clean up the magazine counters, 
then the law enforcement agencies should 
be impressed. Be it remembered, how- 
ever, that periodicals that tend to stain 
youth and lower moral standards — and 
they run into the hundreds — can be put 
out of business if you and I refuse to 
purchase them, for public opinion once 
stirred will convince the publishers and 
distributors of copyrighted filth that in- 
decency does not pay, just as the film 
magnates discovered a few years ago. 

NISI VIDETIS: THE No. 1 PROBLEM 

While financiers and capitalists in the 
North point caustically to the South as 
the United States' number one economic 
problem, Southerners can turn, beckon 
equally as caustically to the North, and 
call it the nation's number one social 
problem. 

Reared in traditions the North never 
knew, the South, in disdainful indiffer- 
ence, can indicate the ever-increasing in- 
dustrial turmoil, social discontent, and 
interracial agitation which daily belea- 
guer Northerners' social harmony. A hot- 
bed of capital-labor disturbance and con- 
flicting politico-economic ideologies, the 
cradle of American industry extending 
from the Atlantic seaboard to the Mis- 
sissippi is nursing those very forces 
which if they reach maturity will subvert 
te entire social order — and with it the 
security guaranteed to the life, limb, and 
home of every American. 

The South, meanwhile, their attendant 
mass discontent, the services of avaric- 
ious, professional agitators who get their 
pap-suck only from the dissatisfied, has 
been free from the taint of class con- 
sciousness. But this freedom from the 
ravages of Communism, Semitism, Anti- 
Semitism, Fascism et al., has bred an 
oblivion to the aggressiveness of these 
forces in the North. 

Southern educational institutions an- 
nually turn out large quotas of graduates 
who have it only by hearsay that many of 
their Northern collegiate kin have sought 
the power of knowledge only for the 
purpose of altering the American social 
panorama to suit their particular credos. 
Warped by agitation into considering the 
American social order as one of class 



struggle to be ended only by the annihila- 
tion of a class, many of the city bred 
have made it their vocation to set about 
agitating, "liberating," and creating gen- 
eral unrest in the name if any various 
anti-social "isms." 

When the South shall have awakened 
to notice the wave of disturbance which 
is constantly sapping the economic 
strength and social stability of the North, 
it shall then be able to hold forth as the 
stronghold of American tradition. Recog- 
nizing its social supremacy over the Nor- 
thern tradition, the South shall be able 
to foster a new code of industrial and 
economic ethics, based on the guarantees 
of the Constitution, to supplant the dis- 
content and dissatisfaction rampant in 
the industrial world today. 

LURKING MENACE 

Few outside the Catholic Church grasp 
the menace of Communism to American 
Democracy and its ideals. It is therefore 
not surprising that a retired Army officer, 
General George Mosely, a citizen who had 
sacrificed the virile years of his life to 
the nation, should be publicly rebuked for 
Un-American and treasonable activities, 
when his worst offence was his partiot- 
ism, his Americanism. "Wideawake" 
Americans called the General an old fogy 
who did not know any better. But the 
charges against the General were un- 
founded; he had merely exercised the 
same privilege his opponents claim — the 
uncensored right of speaking as he saw 
fit. 

Freedom of speech and of the press, 
in a word, tolerance, is rapidly becoming 
the monopoly of aliens and other advo- 
cates of foreign ideologies. Communism, 
especially, is the favored child of Ameri- 
can privileges; for Communists are per- 
mitted to undermine the American tradi- 
tions by spreading world revolutionary 
ideas, disrupting labor organizations, 
spreading class hatred and impregnating 
confusion in the entire fabric of Ameri- 
can social life. Whosoever doth oppose 
these aims is obviously a Fascist, an anti- 
Semite. 

Americans are easily deluded by the 
insidious propaganda of Communism 
whose proponents cram government po- 
sitions in city, State and nation, hold 
teaching chairs in universities and in 
schools, and dominate labor movements 
and social unrest with but one end in 
view — the overturning of the American 
Government. 

Americans must come to realize the 
lurking menace of Communism before 
there comes a recurrence of the Russian 
and Spanish experiments in our own 
country- Now is the time to crush in 
America Communism, Fascism, and all 
other dangerous alien "isms." 



Ante-Bellum Natchez: Its Architecture 

• John E. Goetz 

A NTE-BELLUM home too often conjures up the iso- 
lated concept of a four-columned colonial mansion 
nestled in a neat grove of trees, as the axis of a planta- 
tion. This conception may be typical of most Southern 
cities, but it is not true of Natchez whose ante-bellum 
residences have been acclaimed by critics as the largest 
and fairest variety of ante-bellum homes in the South- 
land. Even the furnishings of Natchez's fine old homes 
are distinctive and unique, and as a part of the original 
setting lend a charm that is truly Southern. 

Bravely perched atop lofty bluffs lashed by the turbu- 
lent Father of the Waters, Natchez is a city of southwest 
Mississippi that is equally rich in historical lore, charm- 
ing architecture and natural beauty. The impressive mon- 
uments of past grandeur 'neath five flags indicate that 
Natchez is a living memorial of the Old South and a chal- 
lenge to the New. 

Most of the splendid old homes in Natchez were built 
in two sections each in a different era. Glenfield, a pic- 
turesque brick cottage villa set down on a knoll surround- 
ed by timberland, is no exception. The two sections were 
built in distinct periods. The rear wing, erected about 
1812, has thick walls rising from the ground, low ceilings 
and small windows barred with shutters to exclude ma- 
rauding beasts. 

The front section of Glenfield was constructed in the 
mid-forties. It is definitely English Gothic with double 
halls and galleries in front and rear which create an at- 
mosphere of substantial comfort and carry out an idea of 
simplicity and breadth. Enclosed with handhewn blinds 
is a summer dining room that occupies the rear veran- 
dahs. 

The outward appearance of Glenfield is deceptive for 
it has more rooms than many of the more pretentious 
dwellings. The rooms are large, high ceilinged and mar- 
ble mantled with furnishings indicative of the fifties. 
Much of the furniture and fixtures has been so cleverly 
carved by slave cabinet makers that few can distinguish 
their work from the product of foreign craftsmen. The 
interior is completely equipped with priceless early Amer- 
ican antiques, and a remarkable feature of the interior 
woodwork is that its first coating of paint still survives. 

In direct contrast to Glenfield's simplicity is Stanton 
Hall, a lordly memorial to ante-bellum taste and grand- 
eur. Prodigality of treatment and gorgeous material make 

—56— 



Stanton Hall luxurious without, however, undue orna- 
mentation or ostentation. On a plot of ground covering an 
entire city block in the heart of Natchez, the town home 
of the Stantons is built on a central eminence above the 
street in the midst of century old oaks. 

Preeminently imposing is the front entrance of Stanton 
Hall with a double-decked portico upheld by massive 
Corinthian columns which frame the solid mahogany en- 
trance in a vestibule covered with marble flooring. Gran- 
ite steps approach the lower floor of the portico which is 
inlaid entirely with dark grey and white mosaics. Lovely 
wrought iron banisters, designed in rose, enclose the two 
galleries and the vestibules are formed by monumental 
mahogany doors with fluted pilasters. 

An extremely long hall with tall ceilings separate on 
either side tremendous double rooms and is itself broken 
midway by an unsupported overhead ceiling arch in 
oriental carving. A recessed mahogany railed staircase 
rises in elliptical gyrations to the third floor where it 
forms a sort of rotunda. The landings are faced by ex- 
quisite bronze work. 

The color theme on either side of the long hall is chiefly 
white — woodwork, walls, ornamentation and marble 
mantles — with fruit and floral carvings. On the right is 
a large front drawing room separated from the music 
room behind by an attractive arch attached to the ceiling. 
Murals adorn the walls of the music room at the end of 
which massive mahogany doors open out upon an ex- 
pansive ballroom whose full length mirrors at either end 
reflect light from exquisite chandeliers. A side balcony 
circumscribed by delicate wrought iron grillework is ap- 
proached by a large bay window opening out from the 
music room. 

Across the hall are a library* exquisitely adorned in 
white, reflecting in a floor-to-ceiling mirror magnificent 
handhewn bookcases and secretaries, and a dining hall 
done in soft green with white woodwork. Added attrac- 
tions of the banquet chamber are two fireplaces with Car- 
rara marble mantles above and bronze chandeliers, hem- 
med in by foliage arabesques, each suspended at opposite 
ends of the apartment. 

Most of Stanton Hall's statuary, bronzes, woodwork, 
mantles, mirrors and other fixtures and appurtenances 
were imported from France and Italy; the brick used, 
however, was burnt in native kilns. Stanton Hall is re- 
markably preserved and it is still a show place of the 
South. 

The origin of one of the loveliest specimens of Amer- 
ican provincial architecture is shrouded in mystery. The 



*Now used as a drawing room. 

—57- 



Elms dates back apparently to the Spanish regime. The 
elder wing was probably built in 1783. That this section 
is of Spanish origin is apparent from the floor plan, low 
ceilings, narrow window facing, huge iron hinges and 
paved brick courts. 

The Elms proper is quaint and set off by a beautiful 
simplicity of line. Completely enveloping the residence 
are extra wide porches which cover more ground than the 
living quarters. The ceilings in the older section of the 
dwelling are not over nine feet high, though the second 
wing, erected in 1856, are much higher. The brick walls 
have the thickness of a fortress. 

Delicate hand-turned balustrades enclose the upper 
galleries. Formerly the galleries were joined by an iron 
staircase that was at one time outdoors. 

Arlington, one of the most stately and perfect exam- 
ples of Southern colonial architecture, was built in 1816. 
It is patterned after a Roman brick villa with Tuscan col- 
umns that soar two stories and support a classic gallery. 
The doors are handhewn and surmounted by sublime fan- 
lights. 

The interior of Arlington is as rich and imposing as its 
exterior. Italian masters adorn the walls of the ballroom. 
Family portraits and a crystal chandelier in the music 
room; rare china, crystal, and imported silverware in the 
dining room ; and rich upholstering and satin damask 
hangings with century old curtains in the parlor show 
exquisite taste and lend an added air of refinement. 
Gothic bookcases in the library shelve more than eight 
thousand volumes. 

No home in the Natchez region appeals more strongly 
to the imagination or recalls more vividly the poignant 
tragedy of the Civil War than Longwood, the mansion 
partially erected on the eve of the War Between the 
States and never completed. 

Had war been deferred a few months the rising Moor- 
ish castle would have been finished and Italian marble 
and statuary, seized by the blockade, would have im- 
proved the interior embellishment. But the insistent notes 
of the bugle forced the workmen to throw down their 
tools, hastily remove scaffolding, leave brushes to dry 
in freshly opened cans of paint and put away in a corner 
exquisite carved mouldings where they have lain undis- 
turbed for eight decades. 

Incomplete as the thirty-two room Moorish castle is, 
Longwood is nevertheless a pillar of strength and a model 
of skilled craftsmanship. It was the architect's plan to 
effect a design not only exquisite but unique. And insofar 
as the execution of that design was possible he succeeded ; 
for Longwood is a masterpiece of architectural beauty 

—58— 



and art, rising grandly for five stories and merging into 
a cupola on the sixth that overshadows a vast forest and 
commands a wide vista. But Longwood is, first and last, 
a tragic reminder of shattered hopes and frustrated 
dreams. 

Richmond is a most unusual ante-bellum home, for 
there are incorporated into the building three separate 
and distinct residences, each reflecting an episode in 
Southern history. 

Of the three sections the center is the most intriguing. 
Erected in 1784, it is a choice specimen of provincial 
Spanish workmanship. The rear section, built in 1832, is 
a plain two-story brick structure of the type prevalent in 
Boston in the early eighteenth century. The front is a 
colonial structure with classic portico and entrance char- 
acteristic of the South during the golden era preceding 
1861. It was built of brick severely proportioned in 1860. 

A creation of 1852, Lansdowne in its fine simplicity is 
an almost perfect specimen of Georgian architecture. 
Wide steps rise in a graceful sweep from a brick court 
on each side of which is an old carriage block. The portico 
has fluted Doric columns and wrought iron banisters in 
a Greek lyre motif. 

The opulence of ante-bellum days is more intimately 
associated with the rear of the main building. Facing 
each other across a large brick court are two-storied 
houses quite as large as an ordinary home. One formerly 
sheltered an office and a large billiard hall, with a class- 
room above and apartments for the governess ; the other 
housed a kitchen and a laundry with servants' quarters 
above. It is interesting to note that practically all the es- 
tablishments of the well-to-do had their cooking and laun- 
dering done in another building whence they were car- 
ried in to the master's lodgings. 

Once a striking contrast to the usual ante-bellum Geor- 
gian architecture Elmscourt is redolent of Venice and the 
Renaissance Italian cities. In place of canals, Elmscourt 
stands centrally aloof in a wooded park approached by 
a winding driveway that becomes semicircular at the en- 
trance to the mansion. The central section of Elmscourt, 
erected abiut 1810, is elevated two stories and looks down 
on either side upon single-story wings that lend great 
breadth and dignity to the structure. Extending across 
the entire front is a wide gallery bounded by graceful 
wrought iron banisters and supports of delicate iron fret- 
work designed in a Greek motif. 

Chaste and beautiful D'Evereux with tall columns glis- 
tening in the sunlight, broad galleries and a spacious en- 
trance, is reminiscent of an ancient Greek temple set 
amidst a sacred grove. D'Evereux was built in 1840 of 

—59— 



pure classic Southern Colonial architecture. Set on square 
pedestals its six fluted columns support a gently sloping 
roof which shelters a broad gallery protracted across the 
width of the house. Peculiar to D'Evereux is a wrought 
iron balcony over the front entrance. 

A wide and ample hall with a double drawing room on 
one side and banquet chambers on the other pierces the 
center of the building. And gracefully winding upwards 
for three flights is a semicircular mahogany railed stair- 
way. The interior of D'Evereux is a reliquary of lovely 
antiques and pleasant memories. 

Monteigne is a startling departure from the prevalent 
type of architecture of the fifties since it is an almost 
perfect replica of the Swiss Chalet. It was built in 1855 
on what seems to have been the site of an old fort. 

Romansque columns and wrought iron balustrades 
grace the exterior, while marble floors in black and white 
mosaics and hand-block Zuber wallpaper exhibit to the 
best advantage luxurious furnishings and priceless an- 
tiques. The classic symmetry of the mansion is carried out 
to perfection in the grounds and gardens. 

Monmouth,* characterized by vigorous lines and stur- 
dy brick walls, bears evidence of Spanish influence with its 
ponderous square pillars and slate floored porticos. Com- 
modious double rooms grace each side of a wide hall 
which is approached by twin front and rear doors made 
especially attractive by delicately wrought fanlights and 
deeply recessed sidelights. Winding along the wall at the 
end of the hallway is a handsome mahogany railed stair- 
case. 

Access to the kitchen, laundry, smokehouse, washroom 
and carriage house is made possible by the extension of 
the second floor over the first floor of the servants' quar- 
ters. 

Many other lovely mansions of ante-bellum times are 
to be found in the Natchez region, but a treatise of this 
nature must necessarily be brief. Suffice that the homes 
studied are typical of the area and manifest the debt 
Southern architecture owes to other nations. It must be 
observed, however, that while the wealthy planters of 
Natchez borrowed profusely from other lands, they chose 
only the best and produced beauty and simplicity as a 
setting for their lavishness. 

The oldest homes of the Natchez region were built 
during the Spanish occupancy. Characterized by low- 
ceilinged buildings held together by handhewn beams and 
hickory pegs, the earliest dwellings contrast acutely with 



♦Completed in 1818. 

—60— 



the stately, tall-columned mansions of the cotton aris- 
tocracy which readied the acme of prosperity just prior 
to the War Between the States. 

Natchez in the first half of the nineteenth century was 
extremely wealthy and one of the better known Ameri- 
can cities on the Continent. To the show places of the 
Southern aristocracy came famous Europeans and Amer- 
icans who were royally entertained. 

Natchez is no longer world famous, but it retains many 
of the precious treasures in architecture and antiques that 
once gave it prominence. And on the ruins of the old 
planter aristocracy a new order is arising that augurs 
well for the future of southwestern Mississippi. 



—61- 



Is O'Neill Anti- Religions? 

© By Jack Halladay 



THE maladjusted characters presented by Eugene 
O'Neill in his thirty-five plays of death and destruc- 
tion are, according to Professor S. K. Winther of the Uni- 
versity of Washington, one and all undone by the trag- 
edy of harboring romantic illusions. 

Whether these characters are undone by illusion or not, 
the fact remains that practically every O'Neill figure 
comes to a tragic end and this predominant note in 
O'Neill's plays has given rise to the opinion that the play- 
wright is both defeatist and anti-religious. 

Critics have asserted that O'Neill is a propagandist, 
who, consciously or inadvertently, attacks conventional 
religion because science and psychoanalysis reveal man 
as only a machine which often runs askew. 

I will admit there are many things which support their 
contention. One of the strongest is that strange and pow- 
erful impressionistic play, The Hairy Ape. When O'Neill 
wrote The Hairy Ape, science had given the psychological 
idea of possible regression an enormous impetus. The 
worldly concept had changed from redemption — in which 
man could safely look backward — to evolution, in which 
man viewed his past in fear and horror. 

The Hairy Ape exemplifies this mood, and on the sur- 
face, the play is a dynamic account of a regressive man 
whose disintegration leads him back to the hairy ape. 

Moreover, there are other O'Neill plays which rely on 
evolution and scientific principles apparently at war with 
conventional religion and the divine comedy view of life 
in which death is equivalent to birth to a greater life. 

The First Man is scientific and evolutionary on the 
whole, and leads to pessimism. Fatalism is the character- 
istic note of Mourning Becomes Electra. Extreme morbid- 
ity and a sombre quality are apparent in Desire Under 
the Elms, while Strange Interlude is built upon a frame- 
work of false values and disintegration. 

The Rope concerns the children of a miserly and scrip- 
ture-quoting hypocrite who owns a farm bordering on 
the sea and has hidden a large sum in gold. While the 
son, daughter and son-in-law agree to torture the old 
man into revealing where he has hidden the money, a 
little child finds the gold pieces and throws them one by 
one into the sea "to watch them skip." This play leaves 
one with an utter sense of defeat and is one of the black- 
est in the O'Neill repertoire. 

However, I believe that the morbidity and defeatist 

—62— 



quality of some of the author's plays do not justify the 
attitude of some critics in saying that O'Neill is anti- 
religious. On the contrary, it is quite a simple problem to 
prove that he is not. 

If O'Neill believed in the principles of behavoiristic 
philosophy, he would not make every one of his plays 
dwell upon conscience. In all of O'Neill's plays there is 
that which is vastly important in contrast to the prevail- 
ing moods of the day in which he wrote — namely, the in- 
stant recognition of evil as evil. 

If, in the early short plays of O'Neill there is a pre- 
ponderance of the defeated note, at least in Bound East 
for Cardiff, we have the early intimations of ultimate tri- 
umph. The dying Yank, worried over a man he had killed 
in self-defense, cries out to his friend, Driscoll: "D'yuh 
think He'll hold it up against me?" 

Even the "Hairy Ape" never admits complete defeat. 
He dies with a magnificent gesture of defiance : "Ah, 
what de hell ! No squawkin', get me ! Croak wit your boots 
on!" 

Then grabbing the bars of the cage, and even in his 
death throes, he shouts in the strident tones of a circus 
barker: "Ladies, and gents, step forward and take a slant 
at de one and only — one and original — Hairy Ape from 
de wilds of ... " 

The dauntless "hairy ape" finds thought a painful pro- 
cess to himself, but he cannot go back to the state of the 
animal to which he was likened. He realizes he is be- 
tween Heaven and Hell, "takin' de woist punches of bot' 
of 'em," but he dies without despair. 

There are intimations of faith in some of O'Neill's other 
dramas. O'Neill indicated there is something "beyond the 
horizon" in his play by that name. Robert Mayo, while 
pointing at the horizon, dies with this vision : " . . . only 
through sacrifice — the secret beyond there — ." 

Ann Christie finds redemption in the sea — the sea 
which makes her clean and wholesome again. 

The Great God Brown dies exultantly, having finally 
arrived at the knowledge of God: 

Who art! Who art! I know! I have found Him! I hear Him 
speak! "Blessed are they that weep, for they shall laugh!" 
The laughter of Heaven sows earth with a rain of tears, and 
out of Earth's transfigured birth-pain the laughter of Man re- 1 
turns to bless and play again in innumerable dancing gales of 
flame upon the knees of God! 

To clinch the argument against those persons who be- 
lieve O'Neill is anti-religious, it is only necessary to cite 
one of O'Neill's own statements and to refer to his latest 
play, Days Without End, which is patently a confession 
of belief in the principles of the Catholic faith. 

—63— 



O'Neill himself once said: "Mo&t modern plays are con- 
cerned with the relation between man and man, but that 
does not interest me at all. I am interested only in the 
relation between man and God." 

The whole plot of Days Without End deals with the 
struggle of a man for his lost faith, and the transcendant 
scene of the play shows the hero and another actor who 
represents the hero's evil self fighting all the way to the 
foot of the cross. 

The hero's voice rises ecstatically, his eyes on the face 
of the Crucified: 

Thou art the Way — the Truth — the Resurrection and the 
Life, and he that believeth in Thy Love, his love shall never 
die! 

His alter ego, an actor in half-mask, dies utterly 
crushed : 

Thou hast conquered, Lord. Thou are — the End. Forgive — 
the damned soul — of John Loving! 

O'Neill's faith rises at such times to exalted vision and 
mystic ecstasy, yet throughout all of his plays runs a 
characteristic morbidity. How can such opposites be re- 
conciled? 

Richard Dana Skinner calls it the poetic nature of 
O'Neill — the struggling soul who at one time is in a 
slough of despond and then climbs to vision : 

What has puzzled many admirers of O'Neill's work as well 
as many of his severe critics has been precisely the outcrop- 
ping of "morbidity" and defeat in so many of his plays, con- 
trasted with his obviously sincere and aspiring search for 
forces and solutions that will draw his characters out of the 
mire. But if we keep steadily in mind that the inner unity of 
his work follows the hills and valleys of the classic poet's 
pilgrimage, these apparent contradictions become not only 
understandable but almost inevitable. It is their very quality 
of surge and relapse, and the increasing strength and maturity 
with which recurrent struggles are handled that establish 
the authenticity of O'Neill's poetic sweep. 



—64- 



A Lay . . . 

• F. Taylor Peck 

ONCE, when the Arch of the World was young, and 
all its stones, laid one upon the other, reared up a 
matchless tower into the Heavens, a pilgrim, who stood 
in the mingling shadows under the great vault at sunset, 
saw that one of the smallest stones in the wall's surface 
had been loosened. Small as the stone was, it had within 
itself the deepest green of the entire seas. And he reas- 
oned with himself. 

"Why should not I take this one small stone with me 
for my wife? One stone, more or less, does not weaken the 
World, and my wife will be pleased. Why should I not 
be free to take away from that which I gave?" 

And he took the stone and left the place. But he had 
loosened the companion stone, which was the green of 
spring herbs, to that which he had taken. Likewise, on the 
following day a merchant of the city, passing under the 
great vault of the Arch, saw that a stone was missing and 
that its companion stone had been loosened. And he 
reasoned with himself. 

"Since someone has taken a stone unnoticed, and its 
companion stone is now loose, why should I not take the 
loose stone to sell in the temples? If one may do this 
thing before me, why not I?" 

And he took the stone and left the place. Yet another 
man came, and another, and another, each taking away 
the loose green stones, one for one purpose, another for 
another, until the wall of the Arch was pierced and the 
great vault sagged and cracked. 

When the priests heard of the disaster, they went be- 
fore the Emperor, seeking his aid in remedying this 
thing. And they fell before him lamenting. 

"O Great Lord, forbid these things, lest the people 
steal away more stones from the wall, and the vault be 
destroyed, and the whole Arch cave in upon the city." 

When the Emperor heard their words, he was much 
displeased, and ordered that a guard might be placed 
around the wall to keep the people away. But in the night 
some of the soldiers took some of the stones to sell on 
the market-place. They spoke among themselves. 

"For what end do we maintain this crumbling struc- 
ture? The whole Arch falls shortly. Let us remove all 
that we are able while there is still time." 

And they took away many of the green stones, until, 
when the great bells of the tower tolled the first hour of 
the morning, with the scream of stone on stone, the Arch 
fell upon the soldiers, and the priests, and the midst of the 

—65— 



city. The tumult of the fall sounded and resounded to 
the ends of the land until multitudes were gathered in 
that place. When they heard of the death of the soldiers 
and the priests and saw the greatness of the desolation, 
they threw themselves upon the ruin, each to gather for 
himself as many of the stones as possible, with fighting 
and killing. 

Chaos reigned. Those that had stones desired more, 
saying to themselves that nothing was to be more highly 
prized than green stones, and those men who had no 
stones were driven out as paupers. At length the people 
fell exhausted from the struggle. Hate entered the land. 
Then came an aged sage who taught them. 

"Put all your stones together and rebuild thus the Arch 
of the World." 

Then they built foundations, and walls, but when they 
came to replace the keystone of the Arch, it was not to 
be had. And there was confusion among them, for some 
would use one stone and some would use another. They 
fought, and in the violence the walls fell again. Yet the 
sage taught them again. 

"Ever it was thus. The Arch of the World will be built, 
and destroyed, and built again until that keystone is 
found which will complete the Arch and satisfy the mul- 
titude, for many stones will complete the Arch, since 
there are many kinds of arches, but few will agree that 
one arch is as good as another arch. They will not be the 
same as the first Arch. The more fool they that dispute 
over the Arch, for though the shape is the same and the 
whole is green, the color is mixed and the combination of 
them will differ. Green stones, like mankind, are mixtures 
of heavenly blue and earthly yellow — some having more 
blue — some having more yellow — yet all are used in mak- 
ing the pattern of the Arch. Seek ye not, therefore, to 
restore to yourself that which is past, but build that which 
is the future." 

And they did, and . . . 



—66— 



Cicero: His Personality 



Alfred O. Lambeau 



THE classical scholar undoubtedly recognizes the 
abundance of material which enables him to interpret 
the Golden Age of Roman eloquence and Cicero, its voice. 
But nevertheless, too few realize that the responsibility 
for this material lies upon Cicero himself, who has given 
us some eight hundred letters by which we are able to 
feel the pulse of the times. Duff has termed his material 
as of evidential value and refers to Cicero as the supreme 
index to his age. 1 True, Cicero was a personality, yet with- 
al he was a type and hence we can see in Cicero an index 
to his age, because he represents in all its complexity the 
Roman mind at the time. The key to this index and to 
Cicero's personality is to be found in his letters which 
form the basis of this discussion. 

In considering his epistles we must bear in mind that 
Cicero had no hand in their collection. The very fact that 
they are, as it were, the spontaneous overflow of his emo- 
tions makes them acceptable as portraits of Cicero. It 
goes without saying that the letters do have a political 
and a social significance which are permeated by the 
force of Cicero's personality. It is impossible to miss his 
own thoughts and feelings which come as sincere out- 
bursts of one friend to another. There is no need for sham 
here, especially in his letters to Atticus, the tutelary 
genius on whose shoulder he wept, shifted his burdens, 
and heaped on egocentrical praises. In reading his cor- 
respondence it is difficult to overlook his constancy, which 
is so often in evidence. 

Persistence was his forte. A persistence not unlike that 
of a small child who has been promised something and 
does not receive it immediately. It can be seen especially 
in the letters which he wrote Atticus in reference to the 
Megaric marbles which Atticus had promised him. 2 In 
this seemingly simple example there s an underlying sym- 
bolism of the spirit of the times ever to reach out and at- 
tain. 

Another example of this spirit is manifested in his in- 
tense application to study. Truly the one place Cicero was 
at ease was his study. A great deal of the intensity of 
study is due most probably to his political ambition, for 
it was not difficult for him to perceive the necessity of 
study as an aid to the realization of his ambition. It was 

iDuff, Literary History of Rome, p. 351. 
2Cicero, Epistolarum ad Atticum, 1:8, 9, 10. 

—67— 



this ambition that filled the very heart and soul of Cicero. 
This ambition instilled in him an energetic spirit of 
patriotism which is hard to equal. Yet unkindly or pos- 
sibly unknowing authors have attempted to define this 
patriotism as political tactics. His creed will, I think, dis- 
credit this theory. In short, it was, "I do not court popu- 
larity by relaxing my principles." 3 He let his conscience 
guide him, not the opinions of men. No one's patriotism 
could be more unmistakable than Cicero's in these lines: 

A cura autem nulla me res divellet, vel quod ita rectum 
est, vel quod rebus meus maxime consentaneum, vel quod a 
senatu quanti fiam, mlnime me paenitet.4 

His love for the Republic was so unwavering that he 
was blinded to its true condition, just as his personal van- 
ity had led him to disregard the machinations of Clodius ; 
a blindness that accounts probably for Cicero's inability 
to decide which party to follow. This very hesitation some 
authorities attribute to politics and others to a lack of 
patriotism. I, however, prefer to interpret it as an acute 
case of over-patriotism. Fowler terms it "lack of insight" 
and says: 

In his political career he exhibited a lack of that insight 
which enables the great statesman to foresee inevitable chang- 
es and therefore he strove to preserve an old system of gov- 
ernment at a time when its influence had passed. 5 

In attempting to explain his transferring or rather his 
continual changing of allegiance in the light of patriotism 
or politics, we encounter several factors. Cicero repeated- 
ly gave up politics for which he was never really fitted, 
yet his patriotism, perhaps even his vanity, led him back 
again and again. 

He was the opponent of all who aimed at power by usurp- 
ation or unconstitutional means, and devoted to those who 
promised to be capable of restoring a government like that of 
the old Republic. 6 

Strangely enough, Cicero himself has supplied all the 
charges against him, mainly because of his voluminosity 
and frankness as a letter writer. His motto of life was, 
"cedant arma togae" ; in time of revolution he champion- 
ed orderly procedure ; naturally, such a character would 
be admired by the liberty-loving democrats in those days 
of early dictatorship. 

At this point it might be well to inquire why Cicero's 
desperate endeavors to save the Republic ended in failure. 
While Caesar was still in Gaul Cicero wrote. "We retain 



^Cicero, Op. cit., 1:19. 

4Cicero, Op. cit., 1:20. 

5Fowler, History of Roman Literature, p. 81. 

eRolfe, Cicero and His Influence, p. 22. 



-68- 



only the form of the commonwealth, but have since lost 
its substance"; yet he acted as if the old Republic re- 
mained unchanged. Many say he failed because he 
adopted the wrong party. Nevertheless, his preference 
for Pompey over Caesar is easily understood for Caesar 
was known to be a man who did not respect ancient and 
hallowed tradition — a fact piqued Cicero's vanity and in- 
nate timidity; whereas Pompey had let more than one 
chance slip by without making himself a dictator — just 
why, it is hard to say. Cicero justifies this association with 
Pompey as patriotism and entreats us to look upon the 
situation in the right light . . . 

Please don't imagine I have allied myself to him solely to 
save my skin, the position of affairs is such that if we bore 
any disagreement there would of necessity have been great 
discord in the State.? 

There is also a hint of that lack of courage which is so 
often attributed to him. At present, however, this is of 
little concern. The situation was apparently the choice 
of two evils, and Cicero chose not only the lesser, but, 
unfortunately, the one that happened to go down in de- 
feat. 

In the warfare between Caesar and Pompey he sided 
first with Pompey, became neutral, returned to the cause 
of Pompey, again became neutral, and with his customary 
lack of discretion finally joined forces with the losing side 
just before it lost. His was a "yes" and "no" complex. 

Despite his indecisiveness he remained prudently true 
to the Republic and to his republican convictions whilst 
Caesar was in power. His lack of realism and devotion to 
patriotism led him to be completely deceived by Octavian 
in the chaos following Caesar's assassination. In a final 
outburst of fervor he denounced Marc Anthony and his 
nefarious machinations. 

I defended the Republic as a young man I will not aban- 
don It now that I am old. I scorned the sword of Catiline, I 
will not quail before yours.8 

And again, 

No, I will rather cheerfully expose my own person if the 
liberty of the city can be restored by my death. 9 

The fact that he made common cause with his enemies 
(?) against Marc Anthony at once bears eloquent tribute 
to his patriotic zeal, With Cicero first, last and always it 
was the Republic. 



7Cicero, Op. cit., 2:1. 

8Cicero, Philippics. 

sCicero, Epistolarum ad Atticum, 2:17. Cicero himself admits his van- 
ity and thirst for fame: "The little strain of vanity and thirst that 
there is in me ... it is a good thing to recognize one's own faults." 
He is sincere, but he so minimizes the situation that many are 
prone to forgive him. 

—69— 



There was in Cicero a self-complacency and vanity, 
which were incurable mostly because he lacked the neces- 
sary realism to perceive his error. 10 Instances of vanity in 
his letters are innumerable, for not once did Cicero miss 
an opportunity to sing praises of himself. The epitome of 
his vanity is expressed most aptly in his own words: 
"tibi neque quemquam antepono." The concession here is 
most noteworthy and must have meant a great deal to 
Aiticus. This vanity is not hard to understand if one 
keeps in mind the fact that Cicero was a self-made man — 
novus homo, who adored his creator. He lived in his own 
private world, so steeped in himself that at times it was 
a wonder he preserved any friendships. His excessive 
vanity was his most conspicuous fault. The approval of 
his conscience meant more to him than the opinions of 
men. This indeed is a noble attitude, yet Cicero overdid 
it and as a result, lost many friends. Surely those friend- 
ships which he did retain and most especially that of 
Atticus must have been true, for only a friend in the true 
sense of the word would have stood the burden that was 
Cicero. Macaulay goes so far as to say, "His whole soul 
was under the domination of girlish vanity and a craven 
fear. ,, The statement is indeed severe, yet it testifies to 
the fact that he did possess a vanity which may or may 
not have been effeminate, but at least was much too prom- 
inent. 

This vice might also be explained by his ambition, for 
he aspired to become the most distinguished figure of his 
time; after each success he was less able to control his 
satisfaction and became the very personification of van- 
ity. 

With all this, Cicero did have friends and nowhere is 
the fact better attested to than in his letters. Their very 
regularity would seem to prove to us that these friend- 
ships were lasting. The fact that he wrote letters is ade- 
quate proof that he possessed strong ties. 

True, Cicero had less friends than he might have had. 
But those he numbered among his friends enjoyed a 
warmth and a sincerity one would hardly expect from 
such a self-centered character. It is hard to believe that 
Cicero did not feel his self-imposed lack of friendship. 
He was too engrossed in his own private world. Once in- 
side this private domain he was "a human rather than a 
heroic personality." 12 He was a good friend but made an 
even better enemy. To those within his circle of intimates 
he was sensitive, emotional and highly conscientious. 

locicero, Op. Cit., 1:15. "We (Cicero and his brother Quintus) have al- 
ways had a keen regard for our reputation and both are considered 
unusually Philhellenic and our public servicse have wished us a 
host of well wishes." 

HBaker, Twelve Centuries of Rome, p. 322. "He believe himself a 
matchless hero and a second father of his country." 

—70— 



Cicero's habit of acting first and thinking afterwards 
was hardly conducive to drawing about him a circle of 
intimates since it led to an imperfect judgment of char- 
acter. Typical of Cicero's friendships (?) outside his 
"world" is the picture given us by John Buchan : 

He had been notoriously ungrateful to Julius who had 
befriended him; he had been willing to use Octavian as a tool 
but made no secrets of his intentions to discard him when he 
had served his purpose. is 

Cicero's friendship with Atticus, however, must have 
been true affection ; for Atticus served Cicero as banker, 
broker, political advisor, confessor, publicity man, stab- 
ilizer, ambassador, and in numerous other positions. Cic- 
ero did hundreds of things which were enough to try the 
patience of a dozen Jobs. The very fact that Atticus en- 
dured innumerable tribulations is proof of the genuineness 
of their friendship. 

Cicero's exile must have been a sad awakening for him. 
He must have realized for the first time how few were 
his devoted friends, but fortunately he was able to enjoy 
to the fullest those still true to him. On the very eve of 
his catastrophe he clung to his pitiful confidence in the 
loyalty of his friends. 

His exile must have made him cognizant of some of 
his undiplomatic actions regarding his friends, for he 
says: 

Tibi tamen eo plus debebo, quo tua in me humanitas 
fuerit excelsior quam in te mea.14 

Cicero did at length realize this lack of friendly appre- 
ciation for he implied a change in this regard as brought 
about by his exile: 

Nisi etiam praetermisso fructus tuae suavitatis praeteriti 
temporis omnes exegero.15 

This period of exile not only made him aware of the 
value of true friends, but it also brought out in him that 
cowardly strain with which so many writers plague 
him. Suicide was a byword with Cicero during his exile. 
However, it is indeed unfair to brand as a coward one who 
arose so courageously on every occasion, save one — his 
banishment. Every letter of this period is filled with ab- 
ject misery, "Ego vivo miserrimus et maximo dolore con- 
ficior." Yet it is not hard to find cause for his misery. 



i2He justified certain associations that might seem unsavory to Atticus 
by a choice bit of diplomacy: Vides enim, in quo cursu sumus et 
quam omnes gratias non modo retinendas, verum etiam acquirendas 
putemus. 

i3Cicero, Op. cit., 2:25. 

i4Cicero, Op. cit., 4:1. 

iscicero, Op. cit., 3:5. 

—71— 



Perhaps it is best expressed in the fears he made patent 
for the safety of the Republic, during what must have 
been to him an interminable hell. It was thoughts such 
as these that occupied his mind at the time: 

De re publica, breviter ad te scribam; jam enim, charta ipsa 
ne nos prodat, pertimesco . . .17 De re publica cotidie magis 
timeo."i8 

It is incredible to think that this could be the "craven 
fear" of which Macaulay spoke. Regarding his suicidal 
tendencies, Poteat suggests Cicero protests too much and 
that his repeated references were due either to a pitiful 
attempt to achieve a martyred air, or to move his friends 
to a warmer expression, or even to stimulate their activity 
on his part. Livy is able to see only one example in which 
Cicero overcame his cowardice or lack of courage — his 
death in high Roman fashion — "the only misfortune of 
his life which he faced like a man." 19 

Thus Cicero was able to conquer his "craven fear" 
(natural timidity), proving he was able to act on occa- 
sion with supreme audacity. Unfortunately he was auda- 
cious at the wrong time; when he was caustic it was to 
those who might have been his friends; when he leaped 
into action he was usually late ; and when at last he de- 
voted himself to his studies Rome needed him most. 

With all these characteristics Cicero dearly loved his 
daughter Tullia. This paternal affection amounted to a 
craze which is readily understood in the light of his un- 
happy marital ventures. His life with Terentia was any- 
thing but peaceful. She cared little for her husband and 
used him only as a means of obtaining her personal am- 
bitions. Her position as wife of Cicero she appreciated 
only in as much as it meant social prestige. One cannot 
blame him for not loving the socially mad Terentia. She 
never shared his ambitions. Moreover, her lack of warmth 
for her husband drew Cicero and his daughter into a 
closer bond of association. 

The references to Tullia are few and far between until 
her tragic death. Then one can see the sorrows of his 
heart as though written in tears — "sed opprimor interdum 
et vix resisto dolori." 20 

His grief must have been unbearable for at the time 
his mind was gravely stirred by the collapse of the Re- 
public and with it his joy of living. His letters are full of 
this great sorrow that killed his soul, 



i6Cicero, Op. cit., 2:20. 

i7Cicero, Op. cit., 7:5. 

i8Poteeat, Selected Letters of Cicero, j). 122. 

i9Cicero Epistolarum ad familiaris, 4:6. 

20poteat, Op. cit., p. 185. 

—72— 



Nunc autem, hoc tarn gravi vulnere, etiam ilia, quae co- 
sanuisse videbantur, recundescunt.21 

Tullia must have been the chief joy of his life. Poteat 
says that Cicero especially enjoyed her intellectual com- 
panionship, for Terentia took not the least interest in her 
husband and his work. 

Many regard his letters to Terentia during his exile as 
evidence of his love for her, but it seems more than likely 
that time hung on his hands and that he experienced 
sorrow in exile. Let us refer to one he wrote in the year 
of his divorce: 

Misit ilia* mini et adscripsit tantum esse reliquim cum 
hoc parvum de parvo detraxerit, perspicis, quid in maxima re 
ferent.22 

One can hardly blame him for his lack of love, rather 
one wonders how he tolerated her as long as he did. 

We have considered Cicero as an index to his age by 
means of his letters which are an expression of the Roman 
mind of the period. In passing we saw that there existed 
a political and a social significance, yet the point of this 
discussion has evolved around his personality rather than 
the times. His personality is apparent in his persistence, 
patriotism, fear, love, hatred and courage, all of which 
is revealed through his letters. Thus one feels a debt of 
gratitude to him who has given us so vivid a portrait of 
himself. We have convinced ourselves of his inordinate 
vanity, his quick susceptibility and his liability to be 
seized and to be mastered by an event of the moment. 

One of his own contemporaries, has said this of his 
letters: "Anyone who perused them would hardly need 
a finished history of these times;" and we may add that 
Cicero was the Voice of the times and the Personality of 
the age. 



2iCicero, Op. cit., 2:8. This companionship was not purely intellectual. 
22Cicero, Op. cit., 11:24. 
*Eighty guineas. 



—73— 



The Architecture of Mobile 

G Caldwell Delaney 



ARCHITECTURE, above all other arts, has been, and 
must continue to be, close to nature. For it alone of 
all the fine arts is inseparable from utility. Man has 
painted pictures and composed music for no more useful 
purpose than to please his senses, but he has seldom been 
known to erect buildings simply to give vent to his artis- 
tic enthusiasm. Every building, no matter how humble 
or how grand, has a foreordained purpose ; and that pur- 
pose ninety per cent of the time is the sheltering of human 
beings. 

iSince architecture, by its very nature, must be vir- 
tually immobile, and since it is designed primarily to shel- 
ter human life, it follows naturally that the determining 
factor of its shape and form must be the climate of its 
specific location. This is particularly true of any region 
in which the weather makes any radical departure from 
the average — such as an unusually long cold or warm 
season or unusual quantities of rain. It could only be ex- 
pected, then, that the sub-tropical climate and heavy rain- 
fall of the Gulf Coast would strongly influence the trends 
of its native and original architecture. And such has 
been the case ; but let us approach the subject by a chron- 
ological rather than a merely logical method. 

The first account we have of architecture native to Mo- 
bile is given by diarists of De Soto's party who were with 
him at the siege and destruction of the great Indian city 
of Maubila on the Tombigbee in 1539. According to their 
journals, the party of Spaniards stood spellbound at their 
first glimpse of the community, gazing with unbelieving 
eyes across a grassy plain to where the massive walls and 
domed towers of an oriental city rose abruptly from the 
banks of a large river. In the siege which followed they 
discovered that the walls and towers were less forboding 
than they first appeared, being of a timber foundation 
plastered with a sort of native adobe, but the city must 
go down in history just the same as one of the most archi- 
tectually interesting and unusual yet found in the new 
world. Of what the walls enclosed, we know little. Ac- 
counts state that there were eighty structures, each capa- 
ble of accommodating a thousand warriors, ranged 
around a central plaza within the city; but details as to 
their construction and decoration are aggravatingly lack- 
ing. Obviously the people who produced such a city had 
reached a high state of civilization, but we have no way 

—74— 



of knowing from whom they borrowed their architec- 
tural designs or their oriental influences. All we can be 
certain of is that they used plaster extensively and had 
some knowledge of military fortifications and the dome. 

Nearly two hundred years pass before we find another 
record of architectural advancement on the Gulf Coast. 
This time it is the French who arrive, and, in typical 
French fashion, bring a great deal of France with them. 
It rained incessantly as they laid out their city in 1702, 
and the construction of buildings was hasty. The cot- 
tages they constructed were modest, usually of one or 
two rooms, and were thatched with palmetto. They took 
heed of the weather as they worked, however, and were 
careful to leave ample overhanging eaves to protect their 
doors from the seemingly endless rains. With the return 
of the sun friendly Indians appeared, a remnant of the 
Maubilians who had fared so badly at the hands of De 
Soto, and the French learned from them a valuable se- 
cret. By burning the abundant oyster shells of the coastal 
banks, they discovered, they could produce an excellent 
native lime, and by mixing the lime with worked sand 
secure a strong and durable plaster. It was the secret of 
the oriental walls of Maubila, and it became the staple of 
the famous "creole cottage" of the Gulf Coast. 

Time also proved that it was unwise to build flush with 
the ground. The lowness of the site chosen for the city 
and the proximity of the bay combined to maintain an 
unhealthy dampness in anything that came in actual con- 
tact with the earth. Houses came to be built on brick or 
timber foundations with ample openings left for the free 
circulation of air. The Indian's plaster proved to be an 
excellent material for wall construction, either as a true 
plaster or as a filler when poured between wooden up- 
rights, and was generally used in all types of buildings. 
As the inhabitants became more accustomed to the cli- 
mate they began to realize also that the overhanging 
eaves could well serve two purposes. For the long, wanu 
summer made indoor living unbearable, and every bit of 
shade was at a premium. Eaves crept steadily outward as 
the summer wore on until it was finally necessary to sup- 
port them. It was only a step then to the deliberately con- 
structed gallery, and the cottage was almost complete. 

Under the spell of the freedom and bounty of their 
New World homes the Frenchmen had been generous in 
granting and apportioning lands. Every home owner had 
at least one ample city lot, and more could be secured if 
he required them, so what need was there to be frugal 
with property? Evidently there was none, so they were 
not. Instead of packing their houses together in neat 
European rows with their narrow pointed roofs facing 

—75— 



the street, they placed them generously broad side for- 
ward and buttressed them at the ends with sturdy brick 
chimneys. Natural Latin friendliness prompted them to 
build on the very curb that they might converse more 
easily with their equally friendly neighbor, and their 
galleries often swept across the narrow streets almost to 
touch those of the houses opposite. 

An increase in wealth and importance brought some 
attempts to introduce the more pretentious type of stuc- 
coed villa built around a court, but the cottage was the 
product of nature, and it remained. By the time of the 
Spanish regime, however, the city had been moved down 
the river several miles to its present site, and the hacienda 
type did achieve some popularity. Nevertheless, the so- 
called Spanish Colonial type of architecture had had its 
day by the time the Castillian governors arrived, and the 
buildings which were erected under the new influence 
were copied from Spain itself rather than from the older 
colonies. 

This strongly Spanish type usually took the form of a 
rather ample building, one room deep, which was built 
around and over a central tunnel-like carriage drive. A 
gallery of delicately wrought iron covered the facade, 
usually supporting only an open railed balcony at the sec- 
ond story,* but sometimes being complete with a full 
second story gallery which spanned the carriage drive.** 
In the rear the house dissolved into two separate wings, 
set at opposite ends, which frequently turned at the rear 
corners of the lot to come together again opposite the 
tunnel-like entrance from the street. The result was a 
square court completely surrounded by the sprawling 
house and entered only from the carriage drive giving 
off the street. Only the house proper was devoted to the 
use of the master's family, the extended wings being the 
kitchen, laundry, servants quarters, stables, and other 
buildings necessary to a household of the time. A heavy 
iron gate of ornate grillwork closed the street entrance 
at night and made the house little less than a fort. 

With the break-up of the Spanish colonial empire Mo- 
bile fell into the hands of the young American Republic, 
and there was an immediate influx of northern pioneers 
and capitalists. With the introduction of cotton-growing 
on a large scale attention was turned again to the erec- 
tion of comfortable country homes, and again nature's 
product, the Creole cottage, came to the fore. The weal- 
thy American, however, took only the principle and add- 
ed the particulars to suit his own taste. The long hipped 
roof sloping gently to the back and front was retained, 

♦Conception Street between Government and Conti. 
**Joachim between Dauphin and Saint Francis. 

—76— 



and so were the end chimneys. Weatherboarding replaced 
plaster as a general rule for the outside walls; but some 
whim, either of sentiment or mere surrender to conven- 
tion, moved the more affluent builders to retain the plas- 
tered walls on the facade beneath the gallery. The house 
was gradually enlarged until it became square rather 
than oblong, and the roof assumed an even more generous 
sweep. A long hall divided the building into two equal 
parts and opened by broad doors upon the front and rear 
galleries. In the summer, with all doors and windows 
open, the entire house became little more than a large 
and well shaded pavilion — the only thing tenable during 
the warmer months. To the right of the hall were usually 
the living room* and the dining room; on the left were 
two large bedrooms. All four rooms were square, and 
each had a fireplace — necessitating the addition of a 
chimney to each end wall. A narrow stair often led to 
the second floor where two dormered rooms occupied the 
rather ample attic. The kitchen was moved some distance 
from the house, and food was carried back and forth by 
slaves. Blinds at both doors and windows added to the 
general coolness of the interior by shutting out the glare 
but at the same time permitting air to circulate with com- 
plete freedom. 

This was the type of house which developed in the rich 
farm lands immediately surrounding Mobile. In the city 
proper it took a similar form, but had a few variations. 
Convention was strong enough to keep the houses at the 
sidewalk's very edge, but the outside kitchen became al- 
most impossible in the close quarters of the city. Happily 
someone conceived the idea of raising the entire building 
and placing it upon a brick basement flush with the 
ground. This provided space not only for the kitchen but 
also often for the cargoes of the master's ships, since the 
houses' owners were also frequently shipowners and 
captains. A large door placed in the front wall, flush with 
the sidewalk, made movement of the stores easy while 
the captain's family lived its natural life undisturbed in 
the upper floors above the street, but the difficulty was 
easily remedied by furnishing a flight of broad steps at 
one end ; the result being greater privacy with no loss of 
utility. In the country too the houses came eventually to 
be raised upon high brick pillars, but for a different rea- 
son. The dread scourge of Yellow Fever had appeared, 
and escape from the dampness and "foul air" of the 
earth was considered essential to good health. Today 
many of these plaster-faced cottages still line Mobile 
streets, and their crumbling basements and tottering gal- 
leries form one of the city's most impressive monuments 

♦Parlor. 

—77— 



to the grace and dignity of its French ancestors. 

The influx of Northern gold and the rise of cotton ush- 
ered in the Golden Age and the classical revival. Strange- 
ly enough, however, Mobile secured few outstanding 
examples of that type of house knowpi generally as 
"Southern Colonial" or "Classic." Indeed, it can boast of 
only one real erample of the southern plantation house 
as it is generally pictured. That one house,* however, is 
an excellent example of the style. The fifty-foot double 
drawing room, with its exquisitely carved marble man- 
tles and classic cornices has all the stately dignity of the 
era in which it was built. The mahogany spiral stair is 
also an excellent feature and typical of the time ; but by 
far its finest single feature, the magnificent colonnade 
which sweeps across the main building, down its side, and 
across the front of the wings, is one grand display of 
gleaming white forty-foot columns. Spring Hill has the 
finest local examples of the classic influence in the smal- 
ler one-story building. The "Eslave House" has beauti- 
fully proportioned and exquisitely finished drawing rooms 
and library, and our own "Stewartfield" is unique in its 
magnificent circular ballroom. 

It was in ecclesiastical architecture, however, that the 
classic influence made itself most strongly felt. For the 
city boasts no less than four churches of the period, each 
of which is a masterpiece in itself. Christ Episcopal and 
the church locally known as "The Beehive" may be con- 
sidered together in their claims to being almost perfect 
examples of Greek proportion and decoration. Govern- 
ment Street Presbyterian Church is probably the finest 
example of classic architecture to be found in the South. 
There is little that can be said of it except that it is per- 
fect in every detail — walls, ceiling, galleries, pulpit- — 
even pews — being in an excellent state of repair and in 
perfect harmony as a whole. The Cathedral portico, con- 
sidered alone, is a magnificent thing, and the finest single 
architectural feature of the city. It is unfortunate that 
the building as a unit does not carry out its perfect pro- 
portions and simple dignity. There is no town house 
worthy of being considered an outstanding example of 
the type. 

Luckily for the city, the classic trend was checked at 
its height by a decided renaissance of interest in Latin 
backgrounds and traditions. The wave of enthusiasm 
which followed gave to the city some of its most beautiful 
remaining architectural creations. Thomas S. James, a 
local architect who was responsible for all the afore- 
mentioned classic masterpieces, set the pace by designing 
the lavish Southern Market (now the City Hall) in the 



*The Bragg house on Springhill Avenue. 

—78— 



French Colonial style and adorning it with grillwork of 
unbelievable delicacy. The creation of plastered masonry 
and lacelike iron took the city by storm and installed a 
vogue which was to last long after the cotton empire, 
which brought it forth, had crumbled and disappeared. 
The vogue was an overwhelming return to the use of 
ornamental iron grillwork. To give any adequate account 
of its use in general would be to describe every house with 
which it was adorned, for the intricate designs employed 
in its patterns ran the gamut from classic medallions to 
garlands of grapes and flowers. Suffice it to say, how- 
ever, that the house was generally of red brick, square, 
and with at least one wing. The gallery covered complete- 
ly the lower facade of the house, and quite frequently 
extended to the upper floor and the wings. The house, oth- 
er than the gallery, was typically Victorian and had few 
artistic merits. A few outstanding exceptions should be 
mentioned, however. The residence now occupied by the 
Bishop is one of the finest specimens preserved and has 
unique features. It is an example of the Italian influence 
and shows it strongly in such features as the spiral stairs 
which wind gracefully down a three-story well in the 
center of the house. The sixty-foot drawing room was a 
marvel even of its own day, and its clustered marble col- 
umns remain as marvelous examples of the craftsmanship 
of the period. The room was originally adorned with a 
painted frieze of magnolia blooms and wild roses and 
imported marble mantles. Time and the whims of occu- 
pants have done much damage, however, and there is 
little left of the former glory. The Goldsby mansion high- 
er on Government Street also has a noteworthy drawing 
room and a graceful mahogany stair. All of the houses 
are lavishly adorned with plaster decorations in the form 
of scrolls and floral designs, but it is a feature common to 
all southern architecture and not typically Mobilian. 

Mobile's architecture is both rich and varied, and, 
above all else, it is original. The Victorian fad for iron- 
work had its beginning on this continent simultaneously 
in this city and New Orleans; but Mobile stands alone 
in one supreme gift to domestic architecture — the Creole 
Cottage. 



-79- 



Gentlemen, My Card! 



• Edward Balthrop, Jr. 



THE great man sat at his desk. Before him was a large 
map, over which he was poring and on which, from 
time to time, he moved around little red pins. Evidently 
he had been studying the map for a long time ; evidently, 
too, he was not very well satisfied with the results of his 
perusal. 

Victor Emmanuel was restless; he had work to do, and 
he was anxious to get at it. He tossed aside the map dis- 
gustedly and began to pace the floor. 

He waited; he paced. 

When the door opened, he walked relievedly toward it. 
A servant entered. 'Signor Joseph Garibaldi, " he an- 
nounced. 

"Good," exclaimed the king. "Show him in at once." 

The servant withdrew and Victor Emmanuel reclaimed 
the composure that is requisite of a republican king. 

The door was opened again and a red shirt entered. 
The man inside the shirt dropped to one knee. "Your 
majesty," he said. 

"Never mind, Joseph," Victor said, condescendingly. 
"Formalities can be discarded. We are alone." 

Garibaldi smiled knowingly:* He understood his sov- 
ereign well and appreciated him. 

"Come, Joseph, let us get down to business," the king 
began ; then he went back to his desk and spread out the 
map. 

Garibaldi hastily pulled up a chair and looked at the 
result of Victor's labor. 

He smiled approvingly, yet condescendingly. 

"You have the situation well in hand, your majesty," 
he approved. "Rome will be ours quickly and easily." 

"I am not yet satisfied, Joseph," the king objected. 

"But, majesty," came the reply, "the maneuvers you 
have here indicated would make our campaign quick and 
decisive." 

"But, Joseph, the bloodshed it entails." 

"Majesty, you know as well as I that bloodshed is nec- 
essary in war. It cannot be prevented. Besides" — this was 
accompanied with a smile — "you had not such qualms 
when I whipped your friend Francis in the Sicilies." 

"Seizing the land of the Sicilies was easily done. It was 
simple compared to this." 

"Majesty, I can't see it. Francis had more soldiers and 
showed much more resistance. Why, the Pope has only a 
handful of Swiss soldiers and he can't, even if he would, 

—80— 



show much resistance. And he won't." 

"Pope Pius won't show armed resistance, Joseph. You 
are right there. But the moral resistance he shows will 
cause us a lot of trouble. He has too many friends and 
subjects all over the world for this aggression to be passed 
over lightly." 

"Majesty, let them protest. After the first quick move, 
Rome will be ours. You will move in and Italy will be a 
united kingdom. When this is done, let them shout. Who 
cares?" 

"Joseph," the king remonstrated, "you are too negli- 
gent of public sentiment. It can do a lot." 

"Your majesty, to a united Italy, public opinion can do 
nothing. The shouts of the world will fall off like pebbles 
from a wall." 

"Joseph, you are a soldier, not a diplomat. I already 
knew that, but you show it more clearly now." 

Garibaldi was pleased. "Majesty, you are right," he said, 
"I am a soldier. My duty is a soldier's one. And my job 
at present is a soldier's. But after my job is done, you 
must take up ; you must handle public sentiment. That is 
your task — yours and your ministers'. In the meantime, 
let us make plans to get this done as quickly as possible" 
— he smiled — "so your job of handling the protests will 
come all the more quickly." 

"The plan is simple," the king explained. "We have 
sixty thousand men. Napoleon's soldiers are gone, so all 
the Pope has is his Swiss guard. We march in, take what- 
ever confronts us, and set up our national government." 

"It is truly a simple thing," Garibaldi agreed, "except 
for one thing, the Swiss guard." 

"The Swiss guard is negligent," Victor retorted. 
"What can that handful do against my army?" 

"Enough," Garibaldi said, "to excite the storm of pro- 
test you fear so much." 

"True, too true, Joseph," said Victor, "but what can we 
do? The guard must be defeated." 

"Majesty, it must. I am afraid it must. I made plans 
for its not fighting, but I am afraid they fell through." 

"Joseph," the king ridiculed, "the Swiss not fight. 
That's ridiculous." 

"Majesty," Garibaldi explained, "if they had no leader, 
they would not fight. Their leader, Luigi Antonelli, is a 
Sardinian, a former subject of yours. He was early placed 
in the papal service and in it he rose to the leadership of 
the papal guard. Remember, he serves the Pope, but he 
is a Sardinian." 

"Joseph, you are right," the king exclaimed. "I will 
get men to contact him at once. He may be forced — or he 
may be bought. In any event, bloodshed can be prevent- 
ed." 

—81— 



"Majesty, you are too late. I have tried to contact him 
myself. But it cannot be done. Apparently no one can get 
to him." 

Victor Emmanuel's enthusiasm collapsed. He sighed. 
"Then there must be bloodshed," he declared. He 
brightened. "Didn't you say he was a Sardinian? Then 
maybe he is still a Sardinian at heart. In this age of lib- 
eralism and national unification, maybe his patriotism 
can be played upon ; maybe, for a united Italy, he would 
do anything, even betray the man who brought him up. 
I will send a messenger at once." He reached for the 
bell. 

Garibaldi's voice stayed his hand. "Majesty, your pa- 
triotism is foolish — and foolhardy, as you hope his will 
be. Does it seem logical that a man would do for patriot- 
ism what he refused to do for half the money in Sardinia? 
It's foolish ; think it over." 

"I guess it is," Victor agreed slowly. Then his shoulders 
squared. "Then there will be bloodshed." 

"I am afraid so, majesty; now, let us go over the plans 
again, this time more carefully." 

The king began. "Here is the Porta Pia. Here is the — ." 

A knock came on the door; the servant entered. 

"Signor Luigi Antonelli," he announced. 

Garibaldi sat up quickly; the king appeared unmoved. 
"Show him in," he said. 

A tall, young man, noticeably military, entered. "Your 
majesty," he saluted. Then he looked at Garibaldi as if 
he questioned his presence. 

Garibaldi was elated. "Did my men contact you," he 
asked. "Were the terms satisfactory?" 

The young man was puzzled. "Men, terms?" he quer- 
ied. 

Garibaldi saw he was getting nowhere ; he drew back 
<and waited. 

The young soldier drew himself up to his full height. 
"Your majesty, Victor Emmanuel, I am Luigi Antonelli, 
commander of the papal guard. You are my former king. 
I am located at the Hotel Royal. Henceforth I am at your 
service." 

"Excellent," breathed the king. 

Antonelli continued. "Gentlemen, my card." With that 
he saluted, wheeled, and left the room. 

Garibaldi leaned over and looked at the white square 
in the king's hand. 

"Luigi Antonelli," he read; and underneath, "Captain 
and Commander of the Papal Guard." 

This last had a thin yet definite line drawn through it. 



Underneath was printed in neat, black letters, "Patriot 
and Advocate for a UNITED ITALY." 

Garibaldi looked at his king. "Well/' he said. 



AUTHOR'S NOTE— Unfortunately, the Swiss guard is made up 
solely of Swiss soldiers; no Sardinian, or any other nationality, for 
that matter, could join the Swiss guard. Much less could he rise to 
the leadership of that guard. The story, then, is impossible on those 
grounds; but the idea offered too great possibilities to be passed over 
on such objections. 



—83— 



Church and State: The Kulturkampf 

• Fred Schell 



A MONG the trials and bitter opposition which the Cath- 
olic Church sustained during the greater part of the 
nineteenth century, none was so well calculated to deal 
the Church a death blow as the German Kulturkampf of 
the seventies. The thoroughness of plan and determina- 
tion of execution made the Kulturkampf more severe and 
cruel than Diocletian's persecution in the fourth century, 
and more liable to achieve its end — the destruction of 
the Catholic Church. Moreover, the time was well chosen. 

The Pope was without temporal power — a prisoner 
indeed. The feeling against the newly defined dogma* 
was especially strong in Germany, where the systema- 
tic warfare carried on by the Janus party against the 
Vatican Council had warped the public mind. France, 
the eldest daughter of the Church, was lying, bleeding 
and crushed, at the feet of the conqueror. The time 
seemed to have arrived when the bond which united 
the Catholics of Germany with the Pope, and through 
him with the Church universal, might easily be bro- 
ken.i 

Comparing the two forces about to be linked in combat — 
the seemingly many-factored weakness of the Church and 
the apparent omnipotence of the German State — there 
can be no doubt that the Church's prospect for any kind 
of a successful resistance to the onslaught of the State 
was not very bright. 

The Kulturkampf was a later episode in that ever 
recurring struggle between Church and State. It is a 
rather typical instance of persecutions and yet it posses- 
ses especial interest because of some noticeable person- 
ages and events. 

Bismarck, the most notable personage in the struggle, 
was the typical aristocratic product of the Reformation 
in Prussia; indifferent in religious matters personally, 
thoroughly misunderstanding the Catholic Church, and 
absorbed in worldly affairs. For eight years he devoted 
his entire self and all his practical genuis to effect the 
birth of the German nation. He had lived to see his work 
accomplished and had been chosen the first chancellor 
to direct its destinies. Problems as great in magnitude, 
however, as that of political unity still confronted him. 
The formation of the German Empire had involved him 
in three wars, including those against two of the major 



i"The persecution of the Catholic Church in the German Empire' 
(Catholic World, XX, p. 292) 



—84— 



European powers, Austria and France, and their attitude 
to the new nation was by no means friendly. To preserve 
and foster the life of the infant nation against all possible 
contingencies from within or without was a work not to 
be undertaken by one less than Bismarck himself. This 
very uncertainty and insecurity explains much of the be- 
ginning of the Kulturkampf. To offset opposition from 
without, Bismarck determined to establish a strong and 
unified national solidarity with the new empire embracing 
religion, language, education and political theory. With 
this end in view Bismarck set about disposing of all fac- 
tors which might oppose him. His suspicion naturally fell 
first on the Catholics, and that for two reasons: (1) be- 
cause Catholics were ultramontanes or spiritual subjects 
of the Pope, and (2) because of their activity in politics, 
and aims and ideals different from his. 

In direct contrast with French Catholics, Ger- 
man Catholics were loyal supporters of the State. Yet 
because of an intolerant nationalism they were suspected 
of being internationalists — "the black international" — 
and consequently fell under Bismarck's disfavor. Bis- 
marck thought "it was monstrous that all Germans of one 
confession should be dependent upon a foreign power." 2 
Misunderstanding the nature of the Catholic Church's 
spiritual authority and conceiving it as a political power 
disintegrating German unity and completely opposing his 
plans, he acquired a great mistrust of papal action and a 
lively animosity against any attempt to influence German 
Catholics. He stated his mind clearly and openly in a 
speech before the Bundesrat: 

It is, in my opinion, a falsification of history and poli- 
tics, this attitude of considering His Holiness, the 
Pope, as the high priest of a religious denomination, 
or the Catholic Church as a representative of church j 
dom merely. The papacy has at all times been a politi- 
cal power, interferring in a most resolute manner and 
with the greatest success, in the secular affairs of 
this world, which interference is contended for and 
made its program.3 

He betrays the Protestant's misunderstanding and mis- 
trust of the Catholic Church and manifests what Ludwig 
calls the "gaps in his acquaintance with ecclesiastical his- 
tory." With this prejudicial judgment of the Church and 
its utter incompatibility, as he saw it, with a unified Ger- 
man nation free from foreign influence, we can under- 
stand Bismarck's attitude of opposition to the Church. 
Nor was his wonted determination, vigor and thorough- 
ness lacking. He burst with rage against the definition of 



2'Ludwig, Bismarck, p. 414. 

3Larned, "Papacy," History for Ready Reference and Topical Reading, 
IX, p. 2543. 

—85— 



Papal Infallibility which he considered an unjust arroga- 
tion of limitless license to interfere in matters of state. 
Though the definition of Papal Infallibility was merely 
the public declaration of a very ancient reality and one 
which added nothing new to the Church's power, Bis- 
marck did not see it that way. He thundered forth in the 
German parliament: 

The dogmas of the Catholic Church, recently pro- 
nounced and publicly promulgated, make it impossible 
for any secular power to come to an understanding 
with the Church without its own effacement, which 
the German Empire, at least, cannot accept.4 

The second reason for Bismarck's opposition to the 
Catholic Church was the one which, above all others, 
stands out as peculiar to the Kulturkampf, the existence 
of a Catholic political party, formed and directed by ex- 
emplary Catholic laymen, who waged an incessant con- 
stitutional battle for the rights of their Church and fellow 
Catholics. Catholics, as a body, had recently awakened 
to a more active and energetic role in political matters 
for their own protection. Catholic political activity be- 
came concrete in the Centre party which had been formed 
in 1870 by Windthorst, Mallinkrodt, and other Catholic 
laymen as a militant Catholic party to defend politically 
Catholic rights and to represent their own views. The 
men who formed the Centre party had long been active 
in politics and had consistently opposed some of Bis- 
marck's cardinal tendencies. Most of them had wished to 
admit Austria into the German nation against which Bis- 
marck had fought from the beginning. This would have 
given Catholic Austria great influence and would have 
prevented the hegemony of Protestant Prussia. As "Par- 
ticularists," Windthorst and many of the clericals were 
either opposed to the new empire or to a strong central 
government. They upheld the rights of the particular 
states and rulers as opposed to the omnipotence of Prus- 
sia and the Hohenzollerns. 

The Centre appeared in the first Reichstag of 1871 with 
a representation of sixty-three men. Neither conservatives 
nor liberals exclusively, they had both aristocratic and 
democratic elements. By reason of their possession of the 
balance of power they frequently exercised a controlling 
and decisive position in the Reichstag. Moreover, all the 
dispossessed minorities — the Guelphs, the Poles and the 
Alsatians — joined forces with the Centre in its policies. 
The Centre party had a perfect right to exist as the cham- 
pion and defender of Catholic rights which were express- 
ly guaranteed in the Prussian constitution, and it had 



4Larned, op. cit., p. 414. 

—86- 



also a perfect right to represent whatever legitimate po- 
litical views it wished. The Catholic spirit of the party, 
however, brought down upon them Bismarck's hatred and 
he opposed the Centre as a party disloyal and dangerous 
to the Empire and as "a mobilization of the Church 
against the State." The Centre fought the Kulturkampf 
and practically won against Bismarck, as its organization 
and action formed the bulwark of the Church's defense 
against an unwarranted interference in spiritual matters. 
The activities of the Centre and more especially of its 
leading personality, Windthorst, furnish one of the most 
interesting aspects of the Kulturkampf. Windthorst's no- 
ble, consistent, and loyal defense of the Church merits 
for him a position among the world's outstanding Catho- 
lic laymen. No less noted for his parliamentary skill than 
for his Catholicity, Windthorst is said to have been the 
only man ever to effect a personal conquest of Bismarck. 

The whole bitter struggle was, therefore, from Bis- 
marck's point of view, an attempt to dissipate that grim 
spectre of Church domination of state affairs. Intent on 
unifying the Empire internally in the face of hostile for- 
eign sentiment, he was keenly vigilant of the disturbing 
elements. Among these, the Catholics loomed before his 
vision as the great opponent and so he, who had not 
feared parliamentary and popular opposition at home, 
with the characteristic determination of a strong-willed 
and self-confident man set out to dispose of the Catho- 
lics. Bismarck was certainly the spearhead and driving 
force behind the Kulturkampf, though there were sev- 
eral German factions which upheld and supported him in 
the move. His principal proponents were the German 
Lutherans, the Liberals and the "Old Catholic" party. 

The German Lutherans, made up of the wealthier and 
more influential classes, were especially opposed to the 
Catholics a priori and rejoiced to see their power weak- 
ened and their efforts at control of the German people 
rendered vain. 

The Liberals, the nineteenth century intellectual phe- 
nomenon that pervaded every group, had certain charac- 
teristics that made them a group apart. One of these, 
manifested not only in Germany but throughout Europe, 
was an intense antagonism to the Catholic Church. Be- 
cause of this antagonism to the Church, Pius IX had con- 
demned Liberalism in 1867. 5 The political party formed 
by the German Liberals was Bismarck's chief instrument 
in passing the Kulturkampf's anti-Catholic legislation. 

The third group of Bismarck supporters, the "Old Cath- 
olics," comprised Catholics who had taken umbrage at 
the definition of Papal Infallibility and had refused to 

5Syllabus of Errors. 

—87— 



accept it as a dogma. They proposed to adhere to the old 
Faith as distinguished from this innovation; hence their 
name. This group received aid and encouragement from 
Bismarck who desired to form a national Catholic Church 
independent of the Pope and wholly subject to the State 
even in matters of faith and morals. Though it did con- 
stitute a disquieting element in German Catholicism, the 
Old Catholic movement was stillborn since it was com- 
prised of only a few bishops, priests and rationalists who 
never had any great following or influence. 

* * * * 

The expulsion of religious orders, secularization of 
marriage and education, curbing of religious practices, 
fines and imprisonment were the legal measures resorted 
to. Far from discouraging the Catholics, these measures 
led to the growth and improvement of the Church. 

Definite action against the Catholics began in 1871 
by general measures intended to lessen Roman influence 
in German affairs. The first step was the abolition of the 
Catholic department of the Ministry of Public Worship 
because, as was alleged, the members of this department 
were guilty of intimate relations with the Poles, that dis- 
turbing minority in German national life. Next the eccle- 
siastical supervision of instruction and education, which 
had been exercised conjointly with civil authorities, was 
abolished. 

Neither merely accidental nor adopted to fit a given 
occasion, these measures were a deliberate plan to alien- 
ate thirteen million German Catholics from communion 
with Rome and to form them into a national German 
Church. The plan progressively increased in intensity and 
measure was added to measure to the fullness of a bitter 
and raging persecution. 

The first incident involving friction between Catholics 
and the German government was in connection with the 
"Old Catholic" movement. According to the Prussian con- 
stitution attendance at the gymnasium was obligatory to 
all students but suitable Catholic instructors were pro- 
vided for the religious instruction of Catholic students. 
The bishop of Ermland had suspended the apostate relig- 
ious instructor of the gymnasium of Braunsberg, a Dr. 
Wollman, and had demanded his removal. The bishop so 
petitioned Von Muhler, the Minister of Public Worship, 
who, however, refused to remove Wollman, in accordance 
with the governmental policy of favoring the "Old Cath- 
olics" and interfering in Church affairs. This act, an open 
violation of the Prussian constitution, trampled on the 
rights of conscience by requiring that Catholics should 
send their children to an excommunicated priest for in- 
struction. It denied the bishop the right of controlling his 

—88— 



clergy and when the Pope tried to deprive certain apost- 
ate bishops and priests of their functions and salaries the 
recalcitrants appealed to the Prussian government which 
upheld and continued them in office. 

The Catholic bishops and priests of Prussia unanimous- 
ly voiced their indignation at this unwarranted interfer- 
ence in ecclesiastical affairs and denounced such activity 
in strong sermons. Since Bismarck considered this an at- 
tack on the government and an attempt of the clergy to 
arouse the people against the State, he passed an amend- 
ment to the criminal code making it a penal offense 
punishable by two years' imprisonment for priests to 
criticize the government from the pulpit. 

The first great step to render the State Godless by de- 
priving the people of spiritual ministrations came with 
a violent attack on the religious orders and especially on 
the Jesuits for their unswerving loyalty to the Pope and 
their indefatigable activity in behalf of the laity. The 
Jesuits' part in the Counter-Reformation in Germany had 
earned for them the undying enmity of Protestant factions 
who now resolved to be rid of them. In July, 1872 a 
law was passed expelling the Jesuits, and kindred orders 
from the Empire and closing their houses "on the plea 
that they were emissaries from Rome." But this arbitrary 
banishment of a large body of German citizens had serious 
repercussions among the Catholic laity, who were roused 
by this terrible punishment of men they knew to be inno- 
cent of crime. 

As early as January, 1873, the Catholic nobility had 
proclaimed their fidelity to the Church and their firm 
resolve to defend its rights and liberties. An organization, 
the "Association of German Catholics," was formed 
throughout the Empire and soon numbered hundreds of 
thousands who rallied to the watchword, "neither rebel 
nor apostate," by which they declared their loyalty to 
both State and Church. 

When Pius IX, in his fatherly solicitude, protested 
against the action of the German State concerning the 
religious orders, Bismarck, insulted, broke off relations 
with the Vatican and diplomatically declared war. The 
immediate manisfestation was the appointment of a noted 
anti-clerical, Dr. Falk, to the position of Minister of Pub- 
lic Worship. Falk conceived a plan of legislative acts by 
which he calculated "to make the Catholic bishops inde- 
pendent of Rome, the clergy independent of the bishops, 
and both dependent on the State." 

These laws, passed in May of 1873, 1874 and 1875 and 
known as the "May Laws" or "Falk Laws," unjustly arro- 
gated God's things to Caesar. Falk recognized as the 



6Bismarck was childishly obsessed by the military nature of the So- 
ciety of Jesus. 

—89— 



chief bulwark of German Catholicism the spiritual minis- 
tration of the clergy, and so bent all his efforts to disrupt 
it. He started by onslaughts against the pastoral ministry 
of the clergy. In virtue of the "May Laws" of 1873 the 
German State claimed the right to approve or annul all 
ecclesiastical appointments and undertook to interdict the 
exercise of religious functions by anyone appointed with- 
out its consent. The bishop who appointed or the priest 
who exercised his priestly office without govermental au- 
thority was visited with heavy fines or imprisonment. The 
government also claimed the right of reforming all discip- 
linary decisions made by the bishops in regard to eccle- 
siastics under their jurisdiction and even made bold to 
depose any ecclesiastic whose conduct the government 
considered "incompatible with public order." Finally the 
government took control of the education of young can- 
didates for the priesthood and required them to attend 
secular universities and to pass governmental examina- 
tions before being ordained. Seminaries that refused to 
submit to supervision were closed. The Catholic episco- 
pate of Prussia in a solemn protestation to the govern- 
ment condemned this violation of the rights of conscience, 
and religion. By declaring that the Falk Laws were null 
and void and not binding on the German Catholics, 7 the 
Pope was not attempting arbitrary jurisdiction in matters 
of state but merely upholding the natural law which be- 
stows on men certain inalienable rights which no govern- 
ment has the power to revoke. Bismarck, while abusing 
Church rights most arrogantly, resented the Pope's action 
which he judged an attempt of Rome to regulate German 
affairs, and he resolved to pursue his policy of crushing 
the Church's influence to the very end. 

To the active execution of these iniquitous laws the 
Catholic clergy and laity offered a program of passive 
resistance. They resisted the laws by rightful means, suf- 
fered patiently when they had to, but never surrendered 
their faith and love of God which the temporal power de- 
manded. Their refusal to appear or to answer to charges 
in court for violations of the May Laws and to pay fines 
induced the government to adopt violent but unsatisfac- 
tory measures that ultimately roused bitter feelings. The 
government could imprison Catholics without trial and 
confiscate their property, but to imprison and to confis- 
cate the property of all without trial or proof appeared 
unjust. 

The bishops and priests suffered more directly but the 
laity was not exempt from persecution. Summons before 
the law of bishops and priests, repeated and severe fines, 
imprisonment and spoliation could not break the com- 
bined passive opposition of the clergy and laity. 

7In the papal bull "Quod Numquam." 

—90— 



Because the May Laws of 1873 did not appear suffi- 
ciently harsh and tyrannical, the Prussians consequently 
supplemented these laws in 1874 by clauses still more 
unjust — civil marriage was made obligatory, candidates 
for bishoprics were appointed by the State, and priests 
were to be expelled. But these fresh efforts of squelching 
the Church were as ineffective as the former measures. 
Shortly after the promulgation of the new May Laws 
practically all the Prussian sees were vacant and most of 
the parishes were deprived of pastors. Yet no cathedral 
chapter elected an administrator and no parish chose a 
pastor. Exiled bishops governed their sees from abroad by 
special delegates. 

If anything the persecution had merely drawn tighter 
the bonds of unity between bishops and clergy. Few of 
the latter accepted the bribes of the government to apos- 
tatize and in all Prussia there were not more than thirty 
rationalistic professors and suspended priests who were 
willing to side with Dollinger against the Holy See. When 
the government discovered that both bishops and priests 
were immovable in their devotion to the Church, the May 
Laws of 1875 were enacted to create a schism in every 
parish by empowering the laity to elect their own pastors. 
But the attempt at enticing the Catholics of Prussia failed 
utterly when the laity did not respond. Herr von Kirch- 
mann, a Prussian deputy and partisan of the May Laws, 
paid the Catholic laity a glowing tribute : 

The clergy are upheld and supported by the great gen- 
erosity of the Catholic people. The ovations which the 
priests receive from their congregations when they 
come forth from prison are not falling off but increas- 
ing; and this is equally true of the pecuniary aid given 
to them. It is possible that much of this may have 
been gotten up by the priests themselves as demon- 
stration, but the displeasure of the still powerful gov- 
ernment officials which the participants incur, and the 
greatness of the money offerings, are evidence of ear- 
nest convictions. 8 

What a testimony of the moral and material support given 
the suffering clergy by a devoted people ! 

The friction produced by the ineffective May Laws 
made exasperation almost boundless on all sides. Bis- 
marck himself took charge of the situation. The Falkian 
methods were too idealistic for him ; he would appeal to 
the material wants of the Catholics. Accordingly, he with- 
held all State payments to Catholic bishops, expelled all 
religious orders except those engaged in nursing the sick, 
confiscated all Church property, and finally abolished all 
paragraphs of the Prussian constitution that appertained 
to the Church. 



8Von Kirchmann, Kulturkampf, p. 16. 

—91- 



It was soon clear to Bismarck that he was not attain- 
ing his goal. Between him and the Centre party an acute 
political struggle was being waged over all these issues. 

The more fiercely the Kulturkampf raged, the keener 
was the attack made by the Centre under Windthorst's 
leadership against Bismarck's foreign policy. 9 

In the November elections of 1875, in spite of every effort 
made by the government, the Catholic representation in 
the Landtag increased from fifty-two to eighty-nine, and 
in the Reichstag from sixty-three to more than a hundred. 
Windthorst, the Centre's leader, defeated at Meppen in 
Hanover Falk, the author of the May Laws, by a majority 
of nearly fifteen thousand — Falk polled a mere three hun- 
dred and forty-seven votes. Windthorst was the little Da- 
vid who balked the Goliath Bismarck in all his attacks 
on the Church and stood like a champion for the rights 
of the Church. Bismarck could not crush the mighty mite 
who was Germany's greatest parliamentary leader. The 
German Catholics flocked to the support of Windthorst 
in whom they placed implicit trust and whom they rec- 
ognized as their doughty leader against a despotic and 
unjust government. 

For four years the Kulturkampf had raged with in- 
creasing violence and severity, but by 1875 the govern- 
ment was in a quandary as to how it should continue its 
policy. Von Gerlach, a Protestant and President of the 
Court of Appeals of Magdeburg, testified that ingenuity 
and cunning could not weaken the Church. 

As for the Catholic Church (he wrote) persecution 
strengthens her. In fact, her moral power is increased 
under pressure. The Catholic Church is today more 
compact, more united, more confident of herself, more 
energetic, and better organized than she was at the 
commencement of 1871. io 

By 1877 Bismarck graudgingly admitted his mistaken 
policy toward the Church. He, the mighty architect of 
the German Empire, had gotten strife and opposition 
where he sought internal unity. The Church he had tried 
to stifle had grown stronger in adversity and underwent 
a continual strengthening of its interior spiritual life. • 

In that year the violent storm of the Kulturkampf was 
dissipated by economic and political crosswinds. The Na- 
tional Liberals, formerly staunch supporters of Bismarck 
and his anti-clerical laws, embarrassed the Iron Chancel- 
lor by refusing to support financial measures which Bis- 
marck considered essential for the welfare of the nation. 
Bismarck had reached an impasse. He no longer had par- 
liamentary support. 



9Cambridge Modern History, vol. xii, p. 149. 
lOCf. Catholic World, XX, p. 435. 



—92— 



Moreover, the socialist movement which Bismarck hat- 
ed and feared had made great inroads in Germany and 
the political representatives of socialism, the Social Demo- 
crats, were increasing alarmingly. 

Disheartened by his error of policy, defeat and oppo- 
sition, Bismarck attempted to resign as Chancellor in 
April, 1877. But the aged Emperor, who had found in 
Bismarck his sole strength and dependence, refused to 
accept his Chancellor's resignation. He granted his ser- 
vant an unlimited leave of absence. Ten months later 
Bismarck returned from the peace and quiet of his estate 
at Varzin completely recruited in strength and spirit. His 
attitude toward the Church changed. He welcomed the 
friendly attitude of the new Pontiif , the genial Leo XIII, 
even forgetting his proud boast made at the beginning of 
the Kulterkampf, 

We shall never go to Canossa, either in flesh or in 
spirit. 

9|S SgE 3(5 afS 

Negotiations for the termination of the Kulturkampf 
in Germany began almost immediately upon the acces- 
sion of Leo XIII. Both sides strove to end the awful per- 
secution, but each demanded certain guarantees and con- 
cessions. Indeed ten years elapsed before the odious May 
Laws were completely abolished, although the more 
obnoxious points were quickly rectified or moderated. 
Bismarck was in a position to dictate the conditions of 
peace and the Church was willing to make concessions 
short of compromising its allegiance to God. He insisted 
that the May Laws should not be abolished by any formal 
act and that the government should take the initiative in 
all measures of relief. He also demanded of the Curia 
an assurance that the Centre party would support the 
government's policies. As a proof of his good will Bis- 
marck replaced Dr. Falk by a more moderate and con- 
ciliatory minister. He obtained from the Landtag modifi- 
cations of the May Laws and in 1882 Prussia established 
an embassy at the Vatican. But Bismarck insisted that 
the bishops make known to the government all ecclesias- 
tical appointments and upheld the government's right to 
veto, concessions Rome granted. 

During the peace negotiations between the Church and 
Prussia, papal diplomacy wrongly laid too much stress 
on the purely politico-ecclesiastical elements of the prob- 
lem, not sufficiently taking into account the fundamental 
source of the conflicts. e., the violation of the constitutional 
law of Prussia. This had been the source of grievance 
against which the Centre party had struggled; yet the 
Pope disregarded Windthorst's plea to anchor again the 
rights of the Church in the Prussian constitution. In this 

—93— 



sense Rome did not seem to cooperate with the Centre but 
acceded too readily to Bismarck's requests. 

Through Rome Bismarck hoped to gain the Centre's 
support; but though the Vatican tried to interest the 
Centre to support Bismarck's purely political matters, 
that party adhered to its political policies and viewed 
wih suspicion Bismarck's concessions since the Pope had 
not insisted on constitutional guarantees. Windthorst ob- 
jected to a peace too lenient. When Bismarck realized 
he could not control the Centre through Rome he dropped 
negotiations but the improvement in relations continued 
and in 1888 the last of the May Laws were repealed. 

The final outcome of the peace negotiations provided 
that parish priests could be appointed only with govern- 
ment approval ; that the State should control education ; 
and that the Church's rights should not have constitu- 
tional guarantees. On the other hand Bismarck conceded 
to the Church the control of ecclesiastical education, per- 
mitted the reassertion of papal disciplinary authority over 
the clergy, allowed the restoration of public worship and 
the administration of the sacraments, authorized the ap- 
plication of ecclesiastical censures, and suffered the re- 
turn of the religious orders. 

Thus ended the bold and determined effort to subjugate 
the Church to the power of the State. The plan failed 
completely. The Church had lost much but it had not 
forsaken its loyalty to God and in being constant to Him 
lies its whole power and glory. 

What was merely a change in policy for Bismarck was 
a welcome calm after a long and bitter, though glorious, 
struggle for the suffering Catholics of Germany. The 
Church was restored practically to the status it held be- 
fore the Kulturkampf. The German Catholics were united 
in a stronger and deeper love and loyalty to their religion. 
They were roused to take a leading and influential part in 
the religious, political and intellectual affairs of one of 
the major racial elements and of one of the leading na- 
tions of Europe, which greatly affected the future of the 
German Empire and, through it, the whole world. It was 
a signal triumph for the Catholic Church in the mighty 
battle against the forces of atheism which might have 
destroyed the Church in the nineteenth century. 



-94- 



Widening Vistas 



THE United States has the most gullible fourth estate 
in the universe. Foreign press agents can tell Ameri- 
can newspapermen whatever they wish, knowing fully 
well that this confidence is returned without shadow of 
doubt. Propagandists of all shades and 
A MISGUIDED half-baked commentators over the ether 
PRESS waves and in the press have continually 

pulled the wool over American eyes. 

The late Spanish War clearly indicates the depth of 
American gullibility. Radio commentators and foreign 
correspondents informed the public that the Spanish Gov- 
ernment at Madrid was fighting to maintain Spanish De- 
mocracy. The Nationalists, christened "Rebels" and 
"Moors," were developing a fascist dictatorship that 
would destroy Spanish liberties. These rebels were finan- 
ced by Rome and Berlin and supported whole divisions of 
Italian troops, German aviators and technicians and more 
Moors than Spanish Morocco ever had. In every engage- 
ment the Africans and Italians were always present in 
excessive numbers. The rebels bombed defenseless cities, 
slaughtered helpless noncombatants maliciously, and kept 
their firing squads working overtime. There were no 
lengths beyond which the Nationalists would not go. 
Truly they were instruments of the devil and worthy of 
decent people's condemnation. 

Some mention was made of the International Brigades, 
but we were never led to conjecture that Russians, French, 
Czechs, British, Americans, Canadians, even Germans 
and Italians, far outnumbered the foreign volunteers in 
the Nationalist armies; that if only Spaniards had been 
left to fight on both sides the war would have been over 
inside a year. No, that would have been heresy and would 
have destroyed the delusions of the American people. 
The Catholic press, which alone carried Spanish dis- 
patches of atrocities and mass murders which conserva- 
tives set at four hundred thousand men, women and chil- 
dren, the malicious destruction of cities, churches and 
works of art, the confiscation of riches, and the part Soviet 
Russia played in Loyalist Spain, was feeding its people 
with fabrications. The Loyalists were lily-white ; they 
were striving to preserve democracy in all its splendor! 
And Americans were taken in, hook, line and sinker. 

Slowly the idea prevailed that, after all, the Komitern 
actually controlled Loyalist Spain. But for almost two 
years determined and well-financed Communist agitators 
and propagandists had been able to disguise the Soviet 

—95— 



controlled Madrid-Barcelona government partly by the 
use of a puppet premier who was eventually thrown into 
the discard by the "liberty-loving" Dr. Juan Negrin and 
Julio Alvarez del Vayo, who incidently are now in North 
America propagating further untruths about Spain. 

The Nationalist armies, whom no one told us were Span- 
iards* fighting to preserve the western Christian civiliza- 
tion and an independent Pyrennean nation and who were 
not massacreing noncombatants, gradually wrested Spain 
from the failing grasp of the pseudo-government at Mad- 
rid and Valencia until finally the capital fell and the re- 
maining fourth of the country not already in Nationalist 
hands capitulated. 

Even before the deathknell sounded there was a pell- 
mell rush of mentally and morally decadent "patriots" 
of the stamp of Negrin, del Vayo, La Pasionaria, Uribe 
and Hernandez to flee the country but not until they had 
stripped it of whatever plunder they could cart away. 
Those who could not get away tried to conciliate their 
conquerors by pledges of "fidelity." 

Leftist Spain, which had been financed by and had 
taken its orders from Moscow, collapsed, and a new Spain, 
redolent of the glories of happier days, emerged; a Spain 
united by common bonds of blood, thought and religion ; 
a Spain that wanted political, economic and moral inde- 
pendence and unity. 

The friends of Red Russia, particularly in the English- 
speaking countries, did not now admit frustration. No 
indeed. Had not Franco demanded unconditional surren- 
der? Even now he was making bloody reprisals against 
those who had opposed him. Besides, he was in the act 
of foisting upon unwitting Spaniards a fascist State, dom- 
inated and controlled by Rome and Berlin. Woe betide the 
rest of Europe with this fascist phalanx encircling the 
democracies! 

And the American press, as usual, allowed itself to 
to be hoodwinked. It spread the glad tidings and pilloried 
Franco unmercifully. Atrocity stories received banner 
headlines, and Spain's surrender to Hitler and Mussolini 
were foregone conclusions appropriately played up by 
glib editorialists. 

General Franco demanded unconditional surrender. So 
did Grant. Franco could conscientiously offer no other 
terms. And as to reprisals he has made none, for the hun- 
dreds of thousands of war prisoners are being released 
to return to a useful civilian life. But there have been 
those who were guilty of heinous crimes. No self-respect- 
ing nation would set at liberty proven criminals. Must the 
brutal murderers and torturers of a million defenseless 



*Five per cent of the Nationalist armed forces were foreigners. 

—96— 



Spaniards be pardoned for their crimes? Justice demands 
retribution be made. And precisely as our courts of jus- 
tice pronounce lethal sentance upon convicted criminals 
after a fair trial, so Hispanic courts of justice have sen- 
tenced to death men justly and fairly convicted of in- 
famous crimes perpetrated under the cloak of war. 

That Franco is the puppet of Mussolini and Hitler and 
has made Spain subservient to Italy and Germany are 
unadulterated prevarications. Repeatedly he has asserted 
that Spain must be independent of foreign influence ; that 
it must live in peace and amity and maintain harmonious 
trade relations with all foreign nations. If we know the 
Spanish character and traditions these promises will be 
kept, for no Spaniard will ever submit to alien domina- 
tion. Proud of his nationality, his past glories, his religion 
and his individuality a Spaniard will never take dictation 
and direction from a ruler who is not of his own and 
a lover of Spain and its Catholic culture. 

That Spain has problems of reconstruction is obvious. 
Every nation has them and each of them works out its 
individual problems in its own way brooking no interfer- 
ence from alien reformers. Before we meddle in the af- 
fairs of other powers it would behoove us to solve the 
many pressing problems at home. Let our brilliant editors 
and discerning commentators confine themselves to home 
problems without showing our neighbors how theirs 
should be solved. Then, and only then, will we divorce 
ourselves from foreign entanglements and from all possi- 
bility of disastrous wars. 

E. W. L. 



Wars are the playthings of big business to be put to 
whatever devices suits the whims of the money magnates. 
Does danger threaten the enormous profits accruing out 
of heavy loans and the sale on credit of the sinews of war 
then the monied creditors of belligerent 
WARS AND nations bring to bear pressure on their 
BIG BUSINESS home governments that something be 
done at once. But the investments of big 
business can be protected only by armed intervention and 
that, of course, means war. 

An apt illustration of the infallibility of the argument 
can be found in the World War. In the year 1914, Wood- 
row Wilson committed the United States to a policy of 
strict neutrality. Ably supporting the president's policy 
was a foresighted statesman, the Secretary of State Wil- 
liam Jennings Bryan, whose avowed pacificism induced 
him to object to a proposed private loan to France on the 
grounds that "granting loans to belligerents would be in- 
consistent with the true spirit of neutrality" and that 

—97— 



"money is the worst of all contrabands because it com- 
mands everything else." 

Opposition from within and without the government 
forced Bryan to surrender his portfolio the next year to 
Robert Lansing who, disregarding entirely his predeces- 
sor's wisdom, advised Wilson to forego his policy of strict 
neutrality by permitting loans to belligerents. As a con- 
sequence of this change of policy an American banking 
syndicate was empowered to loan France a half billion 
dollars. Thereupon the Allies borrowed and bought pro- 
digiously and everybody had a job. 

Two years later it happened. From London Ambassador 
Page cabled that the Allies needed more money than pri- 
vate capital could supply. His insistence that the United 
States Government could prevent an international panic 
only by advancing vast sums of money to the Allies, was 
a proposal tantamount to a declaration of war upon Ger- 
many. And why did Page make this demand? Solely to 
maintain American predominance in world trading marts. 
A month after Page's proposal the United States entered 
the world conflict and the Government made loans direct- 
ly to the Allies. 

American intervention in that War cost the nation ele- 
ven billion dollars and thousands of American lives. If it 
taught nothing else it brought home to Americans the les- 
son that whenever the nation's financial resources are 
used to aid, for example, foreign democracies it is in- 
evitable that we will be involved in war, for loans and 
goods on credit to belligerents are merely the preludes 
to war and armed intervention is as certain as morning 
follows the night whenever these loans are endangered. 
Strict neutrality can only be maintained when all assist- 
ance is denied belligerents. It is the only system that will 
shackle the selfish ambitions of big business. 

T. S. 



Press Gleanings 



BATHOS in the news has done much to reduce the war 
hysteria over the past few months. The value of 
laughter psychologists have long recognized. Try it be- 
fore an examination. 

Panic stricken Chicagoans viewed with alarm the hand- 
iwork of an unknown Nazi adherent who climbed an 
abandoned theatre and arranged an electric signboard 
so that it read "Heil Hitler! Down with the Jews" . . . 
In Cleveland a man complained that the press had mis- 
spelled his name in a marriage license notice. Anyone 
with a name like Mieczyslaws Dziadosz deserves to have 
it misspelled . . . Indianapolis police raided a veterans' 
post and confiscated nine slot machines and a dice device 
following the complaint of one vet who had lost fifteen 
hundred dollars . . . You can't beat a racket like that. 

Memorial Day now vies with the Fourth of July for 
casualties. For the four-day weekend of May the thirtieth 
a mere three hundred and thirty-five violently passed in 
their checks ... In a Pennsylvania town the executive 
committee forgot to tell a Civil War vet that he was the 
guest of honor in the Memorial Day parade — the parade 
was marched without him . . . 

The year-round playground attraction of New England 
is now featured in a booklet, "Relax in New England 
After the World's Fair." Is that a dig at Grover Whalen's 
New York Fair? And speaking of fairs, San Francisco 
and New York are out-doing each other in the cult of the 
body. The directors of the fairs seem to think that no- 
body will go through the turnstiles unless a bevy of under- 
garbed hussies are conspicuously displayed. 

The federal government has been most successful in 
breaking the power of political bosses and racketeers by 
the simple device of convicting them of evading income 
tax returns . . . Federal judges and district attorneys used 
to be above suspicion . . . But since the attorney-general 
at Washington began to clean house at least one highly 
respected judge, who was not above accepting "loans" 
to influence his decisions, has been convicted and more 
are up for trial . . . America's yanking World War draft 
dodger, long a fugitive in Germany, has returned to com- 
plete his sentence. Perhaps he feared he would be caught 
up in the Nazi draft . . . Coincident with the rearmaments 
abroad the War Department announced that seventeen 
thousand young men will be admitted for training as 
technicians to the expanding army air corps. 



A United States Senator, enroute to a North Carolina 
commencement exercise, was forced to thumb a ride in a 
truck after his machine had sprung a flat. Not a dignified 
entree, but effective in a pinch . . . Co-eds in South Caro- 
lina stole the spotlight when they registered personality 
plus and a higher self-determination that the men. 

Accidents, no matter how fatal, occasionally have their 
lighter sides — Three Ohio freight trains were smashed 
up in an unusual wreck . . . While digging for angle 
worms with a homemade electrical device an Illinois man 
electrocuted himself. A break for the worms ... A Mis- 
sissippi negro was scattered half a mile when twenty-six 
sticks of dynamite he was carrying went off . . . Because 
he mistook a dynamite cap for an odd piece of metal and 
used it as a wedge in the loosened head of his sledge- 
hammer, a Connecticut woodchopper landed in a hospital 
little the worse for his adventure ... A Montana student 
volunteered his face for an experimental smearing of 
plaster paris. Complications set in when the textbooks 
gave no solution for removing the plaster. Obliging hos- 
pital attaches removed the plaster . . . When two Montana 
blind men collided in the street, each accused the other 
of not looking where he was going ... A quick-witted 
truck driver saved his blazing load of gasoline by speed- 
ing through downtown Kansas City traffic to whip out 
the flames ... A Charleston (S. C.) carpenter tumbled off 
a roof and, no ambulance around, he was rushed to the 
hospital in a city dump truck. Any conveyance will do 
in a pinch. 

Women in the news — A plunge into San Francisco Bay 
in her first airplane ride did not abate the ardor of a 
California woman who promptly finished her birthday 
ride in another plane . . . Women physicians are gradually 
replacing the men in English institutions. The hospitals 
are leaving nothing to chance, for male physicians may 
be summoned for war service at any time ... A Massa- 
chusetts lass put her lipstick to good use when she jotted 
down on her arm the license plate of a tire thief's car. He 
was caught ... A Virginia woman stung thrice presently 
stopped her weed-pulling and discovered a three-foot 
water moccasin about to strike again. She killed the snake 
before she fainted ... A Chicagoan surrendered her right 
to alimony so that her ex-mate could support his second 
wife ... A woman in Oklahoma fed her five children 
strychnine capsules before she slashed her throat . . . 
Another Chicago woman got a divorce because her mate 
celebrated their wooden anniversary by throwing a wood- 
en bowl of chop suey at her. Such trivial excuses for 
sundering the sacred bonds of matrimony ... A West 
Palm Beach woman excused her overtime parking on the 
plea that she could not find the new family car she had 

—100— 



parked because she had forgotten its color. No wonder 
the desk sergeant revoked the summons . . . Police stopped 
the moonlight peregrinations of a Massachusetts swain 
who visited his lady-love via the second story window. 
She said she gave him permission to enter anyway he 
pleased, but the youth was fined nevertheless for dis- 
turbing the peace ... A Kentucky woman with babe in 
arms protected her man by shooting to death a constable 
. . . Twelve women vagrants in Mobile enriched the sher- 
iff's coffers to the extent of some sixty dollars in fees. 

In the realm of sports — In eight medal play tourna- 
ments last year Henry Picard earned two dollars and two 
cents a stroke. Not bad! . . . Umpires in the big leagues 
complain of the illegal use of the spitball . . . Secretary of 
a Chicago bowling league absconded with a thousand 
dollars in prize money that was to be given to the league's 
best bowlers at the end of the season . . . An athlete in a 
small Michigan college earned eleven letters in football, 
track, tennis and basketball during his four years of com- 
petition . . . One of two Detroit sandlot outfielders was 
killed when the two collided attempting to field a drive 
... In an Eastern pistol tournament a White House cop 
shot thirty bull's eyes for a perfect score and a meet rec- 
ord ... A coast sprinter won the last lap of his team's 
440-yard relay even though he finished the race with his 
sweat pants wrapped around his ankles. That's running. 

The Dionne quintuplets cast formality to the winds and 
made themselves wholly at ease with the English royalty 
. . . And a well wisher from California sent Canada's five 
young darlings a rabbit's foot on their fifth birthday . . . 
Schenectady high school students spent four years build- 
ing a six-inch reflector telescope that cost only fifty dol- 
lars ... A six-year-old Kansas child, intrigued by the 
metamorphosis of empty milk bottles to filled, replaced 
the milk bottles with pop bottles and nothing happened. 
Was the youngster disillusioned? . . . An airplane out of 
control skidded into a shallow pool in western Pennsyl- 
vania and killed one of two swimming boys. Even the old 
swimming pool isn't safe from flyers' antics ... A Mil- 
waukee pedagogue lists spoiled children as follows: Spot 
lighters — those who bask in adults' smiles; shrinkers — 
take a back seat; dingers — want their mammas; favor- 
ites — must be petted; and tyrants — must rule or ruin. 
Which were you? 

While the rest of the country was sweltering or digging 
out from rains, the temperature in Idaho was down to 
twenty-three degrees June 1 . . . Rains the past month 
have made most of Alabama's clay roads impassable . . . 
Clay roads, eh! Well, the college's roads will be paved 
this summer, so Washington informs. 

—101— 



An Illinois village has decreed that bees may not fly at 
large through the village if owned by anyone. That's a 
large order for the constable to decide whose bees are 
buzzing . . . Sixty racing pigeons were killed in Chicago 
when thieves abandoned and burned a stolen car against 
the pigeon shed . . . Peace officers in South Dakota hope 
to stop cattle rustling by stopping all cars that haul live- 
stock . . . Three hundred Leghorns laid some 276,000 eggs 
to finance an Ohio State University student's four year 
course . . . Four angry robins pecked away at a cat in 
northern New York until the feline released the baby 
robin it seized and dashed to safety . . . Three bear cubs 
in Yellowstone Park performed for the royal princes of 
Norway by boxing and wrestling ... A Montana house- 
wife saved all but one of her seventeen young chicks by 
opening their crops and extracting from one to seven 
roofing tacks in each . . . California takes first rank in 
the output of turkeys. California's birds were worth more 
than eight million dollars in 1938 . . . Sheriff's deputies 
raided a still in Alabama and seized two oxen that were 
used to haul wood and whisky . . . An old city work 
horse in Delaware, retired to a farm a few weeks before 
after twenty years' service, escaped and returned to cover 
his old trash wagon route. One day of this and he was 
dead. It's hard, even for a horse, to break the habits of 
a lifetime ... A Georgian farmer had a grand haul when 
he cut down a giant oak. The tree yielded three eight- 
pound opossums, five fat squirrels, a swarm of bees, twen- 
ty pounds of honey and two cords of wood . . . Two North 
Carolina bird dogs, bereft of their young, mothered five 
fox puppies. But Mother Fox finally located her young 
and tried to recover them but failed when she broke into 
the wrong room . . . Housewives in a small Nebraska vil- 
lage are wringing their hands in exasperation. One has 
been startled by a large jackrabbit bounding up her base- 
ment stairs; another has black widow spiders residing in 
a bookcase; a third discovered a salamander in the cellar; 
and a fourth found a garter snake atop her linen closet. 

A foreign flavor tinges the news — Finland, the only na- 
tion that is completing its war debts to the United States, 
paid its most recent installment while England's royal 
pair were being feted in New York ... A mixed commis- 
sion of Frenchmen, Englishmen, Egyptians and a Dutch- 
man govern the Suez Canal. Italy, basing its claims to 
three pseudo-Italian builders of the Canal, was refused a 
place on the board . . . Germany has instituted a system 
for beautifying its highways. Fruit trees are now planted 
along the roadways. In addition the fruit is harvested at 
the purchaser's expense and sold at auction, so that the 
trees have a utilitarian value . . . Pope Pius XII emptied 
Vatican City gaol by releasing its only prisoner, a former 

—102— 



Vatican library bookkeeper who was convicted of em- 
bezzlement . . . Santiago (Chile) students, angered over 
a bill to grant amnesty to former officials charged with 
killing sixty-five students in a revolution last year, laid 
down a heavy barrage of bricks, glass and vegetables and 
smashed windows in the senatorial chambers. Nice peo- 
ple . . . Buenos Aires faces a traffic predicament — A new 
law fines or gaols jaywalkers or gutter-walkers. The dif- 
ficulty lies in the fact that vehicular traffic is kept to the 
left and pedestrians are expected to keep to the right so 
that they will face oncoming vehicles . . . Australia will 
soon be a self-sufficient unit for airplane manufacturies 
since rich deposits of aluminum and magnesium alloys are 
available in Tasmania, with nickel deposits coming from 
Canada . . . The British Navy is placing at the disposal of 
all surface vessels film projectors in order that the men 
of the fleet may for three cents a week attend the cinemas 
at sea . . . Germany, faced by a scarcity of food supplies 
and war materials, is practically on a wartime basis. 
Great supplies of foodstuffs are being canned and essen- 
tial war commodities are being stored for future use in 
the event of war. As a result German housewives feel the 
pinch and pay steep prices for food . . . German house- 
wives, limited to few if any oranges over the past few 
months, were surprised in Berlin when big crates of Span- 
ish oranges began to make their appearance. They were 
told that Franco was paying off part of the Spanish war 
debt in oranges . . . Most plentiful of the German vege- 
tables are potatoes and spinach. Sauerkraut, butter, lard 
and fat are hard to get. Less than six ounces of butter are 
allowed per person ... In Johannesburg South African 
descendants of the Huguenots have grown beards to cele- 
brate the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of their 
ancestors' arrival in South Africa. 

The Peruvian government has adopted as a state ward 
the five-year-old Indian girl who gave birth to an infant 
son . . . The Czecho-Slovakian minister at Washington 
has refused to haul down the white, red and blue flag 
of his nonexistent country because he does not recognize 
the legality of Hitler's coup . . . The King and Queen of 
Canada were roughing it in a hundred and twenty-five 
dollar a day cabin on Lac Beauvert (Alberta), guarded 
by Royal Canadian mounted police ... At Calgary the 
royal pair were entertained by whooping Indians, cow- 
boys and cowgirls and the skirl of bagpipes as a hundred 
thousand lined the sidewalks ... At Sudbury (Ontario) 
the royal party descended twenty-eight hundred feet into 
the bowels of a nickel mine . . . One of the O'Sullivans 
who fought in the Irish Republican army against the 
British was appointed to guard England's royal couple 
during their Washington stay. Ironic, isn't it? 

—103— 



The police blotters are covered with them — A 
truck driver in Michigan did not know hijackers were 
relieving his moving truck of cigars and cigarettes until 
a state police car arrested the theives and pulled along- 
side him . . . One of two gunmen cracked a Fall River man 
over the head after they robbed him of his lunch . . . Un- 
known thieves staged the first robbery at the New York 
World's Fair by stealing almost two thousand bottles of 
fine wines and cognacs ... A Cincinnati judge had his 
court in a hospital ward and sentenced a bedridden in- 
mate to ten to twenty-five years for violating probation on 
a robbery charge ... A traffic officer's booth disappeared 
from a Boston street ... A Georgia negro, fleeing from a 
murder scene, went to Atlanta and accidently hopped a 
second freight that returned him to the scene of the mur- 
der and arrest . . . Behind a two-years' growth of whiskers 
a Nevada detective thought he recognized a fugitive from 
justice. A tonsorial operation proved him right and the 
prisoner was shJpped to California to stand trial for a 
series of hold-ups. 

A school girl's sudden threat to kill a Pennsylvania 
State trooper led to her sudden demise when the trooper 
poured five bullets into her body. The youngster had 
levelled a toy pistol at the policeman . . . Arguing over a 
will a Minnesota farmer, exasperated, settled the dispute 
by shooting and killing his father, mother and brother . . . 
An Arizona youth, afraid that his relatives would report 
his smuggling activities, smoked narcotic cigarettes until 
his courage was revived whence he slew his brother and 
a cousin and wounded another before he blew out his 
brains. A third cousin gained a reprieve by praying for 
herself ... A Montana man went berserk during a drunk- 
en spree, killing two police officers and wounding a pedes- 
trian before he was taken and held in the state peniten- 
tiary to avoid mob violence. 

A former World War flier, now a prisoner in California, 
has invented a noiseless propeller in which the Army is 
interested ... A police order permitting World War vet- 
erans in a Pennsylvania city police department to wear 
their army citations on their uniforms inspired a young 
policeman to decorate his uniform with medals won in 
athletic competition ... To convince the staid citizens of 
a Nebraska town that they needed a new escape-proof 
gaol, the sheriff gave permission to three inmates to break 
out of gaol. So easily was it done that the county will 
soon receive a new prison . . . He pulled a fast one — A 
stranger entered a Hartford (Conn.) tailor's shop and 
asked to use the washroom. After his departure the tailor 
found he had gotten away with a twenty-five dollar suit 
under his own. 



—104— 



THE 'ARCHIVES 
SPRING HILL COLLEGE 
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